A Fine Passion (39 page)

He’d released her, bowed, smiled unpleasantly, and rather ominously advised her, “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Clarice.”

She’d blinked, and he was gone, a swirl of black domino merging into the crowd. Frowning, she’d stepped forward to follow him, away from that distant nook where no one else stood, when two pairs of hands had reached out of the bushes at her back and grabbed her.

“Jus’ be still, woman! ’Ere, Fred, where’s that gag?”

Hauling in a breath, Clarice tried to wrestle free, but the man behind her, a huge brute, simply tightened his arms around her until she thought she might faint. Abruptly realizing how real was her danger, she sucked in a tight breath and opened her mouth to scream—

Her mask went flying. A huge paw slapped over her lips. “Now, now—you don’t want to do that, missy. No need to let anyone know we’re ’ere.”

He lifted her off her feet and started to shuffle forward, away from the noisy crowd.

Clarice closed her eyes, tried not to breathe—he reeked enough to make her feel faint just from the smell—and bit down on his palm.

Hard.

She nearly gagged, but it worked. He howled, wrenched his palm away and desperately shook his hand. She didn’t wait but hauled in a breath and screamed for help.

The other man, a shadowy figure, slapped her. Almost casually, but the blow made her head sing.

“Stop that!”

The man still holding her was cursing. The other came to stand before her, piggy eyes peering into her face from beneath the brim of a dirty cap. “No point screeching, anyhows. The nobs’re making such a racket no one’ll hear you.”

She dragged in another breath to scream again; the instant she opened her mouth, quick as a flash the second man stuffed a crumpled kerchief into it.

Clarice gagged, wheezed, and tried to spit out the material, frantically trying to clear her mouth.

Her sudden burst of struggling caused the man holding her to yelp; he grabbed her shoulder, fighting to hold her upright.

Just as Jack crashed through the wall of bushes.

Clarice redoubled her efforts. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jack grab the second man and fell him with one blow.

Then he turned to face the man holding her, who took one look at him and instantly started to use her as a shield.

Jack went one way, the man went the other, keeping her between them. For a fraught minute, they performed an awkward dance.

The man Jack had felled groaned; he hauled himself onto his hands and knees, moaning.

“Come on, Fred! We got to get outta ’ere!”

Gathering himself, the man behind her lifted her and literally threw her at Jack.

Jack caught her, pulled her protectively to him, staggered back under her weight but steadied.

His arms wrapped protectively around her, she felt his muscles tense with the impulse to give chase as her assailants stumbled away, quickly disappearing into the blackness that was the rest of the gardens.

Unabashedly clinging to him, she knew the instant they were alone, safe; the battle-ready tension holding him faded, enough for him to move, to gently brush her cheek, cradle her face and tip it up to his.

“Are you all right?”

Not entirely sure she could trust her voice, she nodded, met his eyes, fell into them.

Watched his gaze devour her face, trace her features, saw in the moonlight the hard edges and planes of his face shift. Saw, very clearly, the Norman lord he truly was, the battle-hardened warrior stripped, for one instant, bare.

What she saw in that instant, in his face, made her heart turn over.

His eyes met hers, seemed to see into her, seemed to sense that she did indeed, could indeed see him. Then something—raw possessiveness, blatant desire—swept through his eyes. His arms tightened about her. He bent his head and kissed her.

As if he owned her. Completely. Utterly.

She was swept away on the tide; she didn’t even try to fight it. Clung, instead; wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him back with every iota of passion in her highly passionate soul.

Time stood still.

For long moments, they communed, explicit and intimate on their private plane in the dark of the night.

At last, he lifted his head, looked down into her eyes. She was plastered against him, molded to him; she saw no need to move.

Something caught his attention. He looked at her shoulder, at where her domino had been pushed aside; he frowned. “Your gown’s ripped.”

Freeing one hand, still holding her safe against him, he lifted the torn silk of her bodice, smoothing the fragile material up over her breast to the shoulder seam from which it had parted.

That was when they heard the first titter.

They both swung to look, Jack still holding her protectively within the circle of his arms.

A bevy of guests, old and young, stood crowded around a gap in the bushes a little farther along. Two of the males were holding lanterns aloft.

“Ah…” one said. “We, ah, thought we heard a scream, and…ah, came to look.”

Unsurprisingly, that was greeted with a positive wave of titters. Some of the older guests were whispering behind their hands.

Clarice closed her eyes against the sight and stifled a groan. It wasn’t hard to imagine what they thought they’d seen.

Jack looked faintly disheveled, protective and defensive. Her skirts were badly crushed, her domino all askew, her bodice torn, and she had indeed screamed. No doubt they’d arrived just in time to see that unrestrainedly passionate kiss, and now thought they understood what had happened.

Jack glanced at her; he didn’t know what to say. Neither did she.

Before they could make any attempt to set the matter straight, Alton pushed through the crowd. He strode directly to them. “What the devil’s going on?”

“Two men attacked Clarice,” Jack said, his tone low.

“What?” Alton stared at her; to Jack’s relief, he seemed to see her pallor. “My God! Are you all right?”

“Yes. Jack found me in time. But—”

“Which way did they go?” Alton raked the darkness beyond them.

Jack pointed. “But they’ll be away by now. I couldn’t leave Clarice to follow them.”

“Of course not!”

“Alton—”

“My heavens! What is going on?” Lady Camleigh came bustling up, giving the crowd, who were starting to edge away, a severe look. She glanced at Jack and Clarice. Her eyes opened wide. “What…?”

Alton explained before Jack could.

Within a minute, Lady Cowper, Lady Davenport, and ultimately Lady Holland herself had joined them, along with Roger and Nigel and their fiancées, and Sarah, too.

Jack could feel the effort it was costing Clarice, still within his arm, to remain upright, head high, her spine poker-straight. Everyone was exclaiming, asking how it had happened, whether she was all right—

“Quiet, please!” Clarice didn’t shout, but her tone effectively cut through the chatter.

Everyone fell silent. Everyone looked at her.

She made no attempt to step away from Jack’s side, but, clasping her hands at her waist, she lifted her chin and quietly stated, “There’s something you all need to know.”

Jack could feel her quivering with shock and agitation, but nothing showed in her cool demeanor or her steady gaze.

“Before you appeared, a crowd had gathered—they came, rather late, in response to my scream. But after Jack had rescued me and the men who attacked me had vanished, I kissed him, and he kissed me. Then he helped me straighten my torn gown.” With one hand, she waved at her shoulder, where the bodice gaped from the seam. “That, unfortunately, is what the interested saw.” She paused, and looked around the circle of their supporters. “I think you can imagine what they
think
they saw.”

“Damn!” It was Nigel who uttered their thoughts aloud.

Regally, Clarice inclined her head. “Precisely. However…I’m afraid I really do not feel up to circulating among the guests for the next hour and more to quash the inevitable rumors.”

Concern in his face, Alton stepped toward her. “You
aren’t
all right.”

Clarice raised a restraining hand. “I’m just feeling a trifle shaky, that’s all. Jack will take me back to Benedict’s. I’ll be fully recovered by tomorrow. But”—she drew in a tight breath, looked around the circle once again—“I wanted you all to realize…what will come.”

Somewhat to Jack’s surprise, the ladies, both young and old, gathered closer, assuring Clarice that she could leave it to them, that they’d ensure no ill-informed nonsense was credited. Everyone accompanied them back to the house in a blatant show of solidarity.

The one who surprised Jack most was Lady Holland, their venerable hostess. She had the reputation of being an excellent friend, and a god-awful enemy; until she stood beside them while the carriage was brought around, Jack hadn’t been sure which she would prove to be.

But then she patted Clarice’s hand. “Don’t worry, my dear. I think you underestimate your standing, and ours, too, if you think we can’t scotch this, or at least nip it in the bud. It’s transparent to any who’ve spoken with you both that the incident happened exactly as you described. In such circumstances, the rest”—with a wave Lady Holland dismissed their too-revealing embrace—“is merely to be expected.”

Her ladyship turned her slightly protruberant eyes on him, and smiled. “Indeed, a gentleman such as Lord Warnefleet would have greatly disappointed us had he not reacted as he did.”

Outwardly, Jack smiled; inwardly he groaned. The last thing he needed was to be cast as a romantic hero to the entire ton.

At last they were in the carriage, rolling briskly back to Benedict’s. They didn’t talk along the way; Clarice held his hand tightly, her head against his shoulder, and stared out into the night.

He did the same. Reliving that scene, imaging what the crowd had seen. The difficulty with Lady Holland’s and the others’ assurances was simple; they hadn’t seen that too-revealing embrace. That kiss that had cut far too close to his bone, the inevitable reaction to a situation that had shaken him so badly his customary chameleon’s mask had been nowhere in sight.

That moment, that kiss, had been far too raw, their emotions, both his and hers, far too close to the surface for anyone watching to have misunderstood.

To not have seen that they were lovers.

They might not have, as the crowd doubtless thought, made love in the gardens of Holland House, but that one fact was now unarguable.

And it was now public property.

T
heir return to Benedict’s was uneventful; Clarice, wrapped in her domino to hide her torn gown, passed more or less unnoticed.

Once in her suite, she shut the door, tossed her domino over a chair, then went to sit in one of the deep armchairs by the hearth. She slumped, very tired, still shaking inside. A small fire was burning; leaning forward, she held her cold hands out to the blaze. “I think Moira was behind that.”

“Moira?” Jack had halted just inside the door; she could feel his gaze on her. “Not the traitor’s henchman?”

“Not unless the traitor’s henchman can get friends of Moira’s daughters to help him.” She clasped her hands and stared into the flames. “I just remembered where I’d seen that man and woman before. They were walking with Hilda and Mildred in Bond Street a few days ago.”

How Moira would laugh once she realized how her vindictive scheme had played out. That Clarice had been saved from whatever horrors Moira had planned for her, but had instead been caught in an even more flagrantly scandalous situation than the one Moira had tried to create seven years ago.

Luckily, she was no longer twenty-two, and her father was dead.

A few moments later, Jack appeared beside her. “Here.”

She looked up; he was holding out a glass of brandy. She took it; sitting back, she sipped. The fiery liquid slid smoothly down her throat, then spread, warming the icy pit that was her stomach.

For a moment, Jack stood, sipping and looking down at the fire. Then he shifted and sat in the other armchair. Forearms on his knees, he cradled the brandy balloon between his hands, then he lifted his head, and met her gaze. “We have to talk.”

Her veins ran cold. She took another sip of the brandy. “About what?”

His gaze remained, unwavering, on her face. “About the situation that now exists.”

She quelled an impulse to ask “What situation?” He wasn’t going to let her avoid the subject; that much was clear in his hazel eyes. “What, precisely, do you mean?”

He hesitated; to her it was clear he was searching for words, for the best avenue to follow. “Despite the fond hopes of our supporters, regardless of what that crowd did or did not actually see, they saw enough. No amount of denial is going to erase the truth they did indeed observe.”

He paused, then drew in a deep breath; she wished she could cut the discussion short, dismiss his words, simply look away, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from his, from the face she now knew so well.

“There are still…accepted practices within the ton. We might think little of them, but they nevertheless are there. If we want to remain an accepted part of that society, the circle into which we both were born, then we have to abide by those rules, by their ways.”

An even more frigid chill washed through her. She held up a hand, palm out, to stop him.

He reached out, caught that hand, held it. “No—hear me out. You’ve reclaimed your position within the ton. They were ready to welcome you back, to reinstate you in order to rid themselves of Moira perhaps, but time has dimmed the past, and the ton is now once more your world. With your reclaimed status, there’s much you can do to further help your brothers, to establish the foundation for the next generation of your family—a laudable goal, one I understand.” His voice took on a harder edge. “But to remain within the ton, you need to hold the position you’ve regained. You need not just to weather but quash the scandal that will inevitably flow from that moment in the garden.”

He paused; she still couldn’t drag her eyes from his. “I know it isn’t what you want, but…if you wish it, you have my offer to marry you. If we agree to marry, there will be no scandal, and you’ll be able to accomplish all you desire within the ton.”

She wondered what he saw as he searched her eyes, then his hand tightened, gently, around hers.

“Your choice.” His lips twisted, self-deprecatingly wry. “But you do have to choose. Now. Tonight.”

She blinked, and struggled to pull together wits that seemed to have spun away.

I know it’s not what you want.

He was wrong, so wrong. Marrying him was precisely what she wanted—if nothing else, that much was clear in her mind—but not like this.
Never
like this.

This was a nightmare come to life, not just for her, but for him, too.

“No.” It was her turn to squeeze his hand. She was grateful for the contact. Looking into his eyes, she realized how close they’d grown, that it wasn’t possible, with him, for her to simply decree.

It took effort to lower her shields, to look steadily into his eyes and let him see what she felt, and why. She swallowed, and found her voice. “Seven years ago, I made a stand. I refused to allow the ton to dictate my life, not when it came to marriage. That was the right decision then…and it’s even more the right decision now. We’ve both been near victims of others exploiting these selfsame rules to try to control us, to marry us. You know, and I know, how we both felt, still feel about marriage in such circumstances, essentially under duress. To now bow to those same dictates, to do that to ourselves…no. I will not sacrifice you, or me, to their false gods, to their arrogance.”

“But—”

“No—hear me out.” She managed a weak smile. “I told my brothers I didn’t want to return to the family fold, not in terms of tonnish life, of being the matriarch of the clan on any permanent basis.” Tilting her head, she studied his face, tried to read his eyes. “I don’t think they believed me, or rather they imagine they can persuade me otherwise. I’m not sure I convinced you, either.”

Lips twisting wryly, she leaned back in the chair; she still held his hand. “You know I rarely change my mind, and on that subject, I never will. Once my brothers’ grand engagement ball is over, I intend, most definitely, to return to the rectory at Avening. The ton won’t understand, but they’re not required to. It’s what I want, where I want to be, and that’s all that matters.”

He didn’t say anything for several heartbeats, then his fingers shifted over hers. “You’re turning your back on what other ladies would kill to have.”

“Perhaps. But unlike them, I know the true value of what I’m refusing, and what I’m embracing in its stead.”

You. A different sort of life—a more fulfilling life.

“There are times when I find you very difficult to understand.”

She smiled, but it was a weak effort. “Never mind.” He didn’t understand that she loved him with all her heart, but then she’d only just realized that herself, and she didn’t know how he felt about her, either. She had no idea if anything would come of what was now between them; she could only hope. They were both complicated people with complex motives; being certain of what was driving the other would never be easy. Not unless they stated it.

And as she looked into his now-familiar hazel eyes, for once in her life, she wasn’t brave enough to simply say, in so many words, what she felt.

Sometime, perhaps, but not tonight.

Tonight, the feelings were too raw, too roiling, the full realization too new.

She hadn’t expected to fall so deeply in love.

Gently disengaging, he stood. Taking both empty brandy balloons, he set them on the mantelpiece, then looked down at her. Studied her eyes, her face. “If you’re sure…”

“I am.” She held out her hands. He grasped them and drew her to her feet.

For a moment, they stood face-to-face, close, then she smiled; retaining possession of one of his hands, she turned, and led him to her bed.

In the cool shadows of the night, in the soft billows of her bed, despite their ease, their familiarity, an element of something different prevailed. As if, with her refusal of his forced suit, they’d stepped beyond the bounds of regimented life and were now free, between them openly free, of all constraint.

So that he could now drive her further, harder, and she could respond, not just with passion but with an abject surrender that went deeper and meant infinitely more. As usual, they passed the reins back and forth; when it came her turn, she lavished pleasure and more, a deeper worship, an appreciation that was physical, emotional, sensual, and still something more, upon him.

The engagement started simply enough, a touch, a sigh, a kiss. But desire caught them, then spiraled until they burned, not fast and furious but strongly, steadily. Wanting more, needing more, consuming more.

Surrendering more.

Giving more.

The night shadows embraced them; in the sweet dark in his arms she finally found what she had thought she never would, the full measure of what she was truly meant to be. All she could be.

Her heart soared, and she no longer cared if it would later break. To be this way with him was reward enough.

That, and knowing that she loved him.

Jack woke in the small hours of the morning. Beyond the walls, the world was wrapped in deepest night, quiet and still; within them, peace, soft shadows and a comforting, comfortable warmth prevailed.

Beside him, Clarice lay deeply asleep, one small hand spread on his chest, the gentle rhythm of her breathing a cadence some primitive part of his mind faithfully tracked. Lying back in the cocooning softness, luxuriating in a sea of sensual well-being, he took stock.

She’d refused to marry him.

Logically, he should feel dejected, cast down. Instead, he felt as if some tricky, unexpected, unprecedented hurdle fate had conspired to throw in their path had been successfully negotiated and overcome. As if they’d somehow triumphed.

She’d refused him, but he couldn’t fault her reasons. He hadn’t wanted to offer for her hand like that, but had felt compelled to. Even now, in the same circumstances, he would do it again; that offer had had to be made.

And she had had to refuse it.

Somehow, that—him offering, her refusing—had freed them. Cut through the web of social dictates that had threatened to trap them. But more, the moment had lifted a weight from his heart and dispersed all lingering clouds from his mind.

The way forward was clear, and his reasons for following the road he’d selected had never been more definite.

It was time to act. To seize the moment. Every warrior instinct he possessed assured him that was so.

He glanced at Clarice, let his gaze drift over her fine features, relaxed in sleep, then carefully, without disturbing her, he eased from her side, and the bed.

Finding his trousers and shirt, he slipped into the sitting room and closed the door. He swiftly dressed, then tugged the bellpull. When the sleepy night footman tapped on the door, he sent him to fetch the box he’d left with the concierge.

“Boadicea, Boadicea, open your eyes.”

Clarice woke to the whispered words, and the sensation of fairy kisses pattering like rain on her skin. A shower of silken softness, of caresses almost intangible.

Even before she opened her eyes, she caught the scent, in a flash of evocative memory was transported back to Avening, to the folly, to the nights of passion they’d enjoyed there, free of the world, free of all care.

Opening her eyes, she saw Jack leaning over her, one hand moving above her as he rained apple blossom over her bare breasts. She turned toward him, onto her back, glanced around.

Discovered they were lying in a sea of apple blossom.

She looked up at him, caught his eyes as he shifted back, viewing her.

His lips curved. “This is how I see you—how I want to see you. My warrior-queen naked on a bed of apple blossom.”

The covers were down by their feet. The pink-and-white petals were everywhere, over her, under her; they clung to her skin, but not so much to his, the light dusting of hair keeping them at bay. But as he touched her, caressed her, sculpted her flesh, and heat rose beneath her skin, the evocative scent wafted from the petals, until, closing her eyes, she could almost believe they were back at Avening.

She sighed as his hands drifted over her.

Then she opened her eyes, parted her lips—he dipped his head and kissed her. Filled her mouth with a long, sure, confident invasion. Shifted farther over her, parted her thighs, and touched her, caressed her, until she simply sighed into the kiss and let go.

Let him have his way.

Let him lift her legs and wind them about his hips, then thrust deep into her welcoming softness. Let him fill her intimately, possess her completely.

For once, she made no move to take the reins, but let him do as he would, show her what he would. Without hesitation, she placed herself in his hands and let him take her where he wished. How he wished, as he wished.

Dawn broke, and poured its soft light down upon them.

Head back, spine bowed as he rode her, as he drove her ever higher, ever harder toward the beckoning crest of their sensual wave, she clung, sobbed, gasped through their kiss, and gave him all he wished, and took all he offered in return.

And felt, deep within, hope well and bloom, saw opening before her a landscape new and fresh, filled with possibilities, with promise.

With love.

It was a land they could have if they wished, if they would.

The wave broke; they clung as ecstasy crashed through them, caught them up, spun them into the heavens, shattered them, then re-formed them.

Welded them anew into something they hadn’t been before. She didn’t have words to acknowledge it, but she knew it in her heart.

Knew neither she nor he would ever be the same.

The wave of sensual joy receded, sighed away and left them, sated and boneless, wrapped in each other’s arms in the tumbled jumble of her bed.

Amid the sea of apple blossom.

Cocooned in love.

She floated, but didn’t truly sleep again, too delighted, too energized, too aware.

How could apple blossoms mean so much?

How could the simple act of coming together be so meaningful? So earth-shatteringly powerful?

She knew the answers. It wasn’t the physical, nor the sensual, not even the emotional connections made, but what those arose from, what the item or the act represented, what it acknowledged.