Lord Clayborne's Fancy (13 page)

When the whole party had assembled for dinner, Rebecca felt reasonably satisfied with the gathering: Clayborne was being charming, the captains were in high spirits, Meg was attempting to draw out her cousin, and Mary, never one to sulk for long—and anxious to show Clayborne that she could behave—chatted with everyone indiscriminately. Mrs. Rotham and her daughter were flattered with the attention they received, impressed by Clayborne House and looked forward to their return journey in Clayborne’s carriage with a mixture of awe and snobbery. Though Miss Turnpeck had persisted in proclaiming her fatigue, she had allowed that she might join them later in the evening, after she had enjoyed a tray in her room and rested a trifle longer.

Although the seating of necessity left Rebecca somewhat out of the general conversation, she watched the others with amusement.

Sally fluttered her eyelashes at Captain Hardcastle and purred, “Oh, my dear sir, you were at Waterloo? You must be so very brave!”

The brave captain gallantly protested. “Not a bit, Miss Rotham. It is Captain Gray who performed great feats of courage.”

But Captain Gray was ambitiously endeavoring to charm Mrs. Rotham, and did not respond to this attempt to divert him.

“I have had the pleasure of being in Bath only thrice, ma’am, and not for many years. But the last time I was there I happened to arrive on a fast day, for the old king’s health, I believe. After riding for hours, and calmly expecting to have a decent meal in Bath, for I had forgotten the fast day entirely, I arrived to find I could not get so much as a turnip.”

“We are very strict in our observance, Captain Gray, and it does my heart good to hear that you found God-fearing innkeepers, so ready to disoblige a patron in spite of the profit they might have had.”

Although it had not been Captain Gray’s intent to warm the cockles of her heart with his discomfort, he decided that he now had her measure and proceeded to recall every Sunday service he had ever attended which might have some interest to her.

Clayborne lifted a quizzical brow but followed Captain Gray’s lead, and Rebecca caught snatches of his voice discussing the vicar’s theories on Sunday school classes. Now and again he glanced at her, an unfathomable look in his eyes, and when she rose to lead the ladies from the room he gave her an encouraging smile. Strengthened, she was able to sit with her aunt and cousin talking of their activities in London, since so many of them had been worthy owing to Miss Turnpeck’s presence.

Meg was induced to play the pianoforte when the men rejoined them, while her sisters sang and Sally was heard to say, “I am myself rather accomplished on the pianoforte, Captain Hardcastle, but I would never put myself forward in a group where my talents would outshine those of others. No, no, I shall not play this evening.”

When they had all sat down to cards, with Mrs. Rotham protesting that, “I take a hand now and then to be sociable,” Clayborne noted that Sally did indeed cheat, and he grinned at Mary, who acknowledged this with a wide, conspiratorial wink. Needing just another nibble before bed, Miss Turnpeck joined them as the tea tray was brought in.

Mrs. Rotham was proclaiming, “I never have been much interested in London. Bath is so much more genteel and quiet.”

Mary could not resist a grimace, but Clayborne replied easily, “In addition to which there are the waters and the baths. We can lay no claim to such health-inducing properties in London.”

Delighted that her aunt seemed to have no desire to spend more time in London, and would no doubt happily climb into Clayborne’s carriage in the morning, Rebecca encouraged her aunt to talk of Bath and her home.

“I should very much like to visit Bath one day,” Miss Turnpeck contributed. “I have read so much about the crescents and the Pump Room. Mr. Wood created a most magnificent scheme, I understand. And the Abbey; I should dearly love to see the Abbey!”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Rotham said coldly, eyeing Miss Turnpeck askance, as though the governess had wandered into the wrong room. Miss Turnpeck was thereby silenced so effectively that even Captain Hardcastle took pity on her and attempted to engage her in hearty conversation.

Ignoring this slight to herself, Mrs. Rotham announced grandly, “We must make an early start in the morning. Come, Sally, we should be getting to our rest.”

“Oh, Mama, it is early yet. I wish to stay with the others.” Her eyes traveled provocatively to Captain Hardcastle.

 “Nonsense, child. Make your curtsey.”

Sally sulked but her mother would brook no argument, so she simpered prettily for the captains and allowed herself to be led reluctantly from the room. There was a moment of silence when the door closed behind them, and then an audible sigh of relief.

Rebecca turned to Captain Gray. “I cannot tell you how grateful we are that you could join us this evening.”

He responded with his boyish grin. “Always pleased to be of service, Lady Clayborne. We should be off, if you have to speed your departing guests in the morning. I say, your ankle’s all right now, is it?”

“Very well. I have no trouble walking on it, and the swelling is almost gone.”

As he rose, Captain Hardcastle gave her his hand and made her promise a dance at the Stonebridge rout. Captain Gray, not to be outdone, made both Meg and Rebecca promise a dance, and the two young men departed to see a bit more of the night before they eventually sought their beds at first light.

The others started to drift toward their rooms, but Rebecca had a wordless signal from her husband to remain behind. “I can understand now why Mary escaped them,” he confided with a grimace. “Will you have a glass of wine with me?”

Surprised, Rebecca nodded and seated herself on an oval-backed, serpentine-seated chair. Clayborne poured two glasses from the decanter brought in with the tea tray, and crossed the room to hand one to her. Not entirely at ease but attempting to appear so, he seated himself on a matching chair beside her while Rebecca sipped her wine and waited for him to speak. She noted that his brown eyes were soft and luminous in the glow of the candles. My God, he is going to try to seduce me, she thought, panicked.

“I think the evening went very well,” he finally commented. “But I am thankful that your aunt has no desire to stay on here. It will be several days before the carriage is back in town to return us to Gray Oaks. You will not mind staying on, will you?” he asked softly.

“Of course not, Jason,” she replied, a slight feeling of breathlessness overtaking her.

He smiled, a warm, tender smile, and took her free hand. Why is he doing this? she thought, even as his touch made her understand. “You look charming tonight, my dear,” he murmured as he turned the hand palm upward and kissed it lingeringly.

Rebecca restrained a frightened impulse to withdraw her hand and found herself unable to meet his eyes.

“Thank you, Jason.”

He set his wine glass down, retained her hand, and with the other tentatively touched her cheek. To her annoyance, she felt herself blushing. He lightly brushed her brow, her eyelids, her lips, with his fingertips and she was no longer able to keep her eyes from his face. There was a tap at the door.

His right hand dropped from her face but he retained his hold on her hand. “Come in.”

The butler, eyes firmly locked on the tea tray, asked, “Shall I clear, milord?”

“Yes, but leave the wine, and that will be all for the night.”

The intrusion was brief. There was a dimming of the light in the room as the candles at the other end were extinguished. The rustle of the tea tray was quickly succeeded by the quiet closing of the door. Rebecca had not taken her eyes from her husband’s face, nor he from hers. Her cheeks were enchantingly flushed.

Clayborne’s hair had fallen across his forehead and his eyes were gentle. “Would you like more wine?”

“Yes, please, Jason.”

He seemed reluctant to release her hand, but rose and brought the decanter over to refill her glass and his, setting it down on the semicircular side table. Rebecca hesitantly lifted the glass and took a small sip as he reseated himself and pulled his chair closer to her own. She had placed her hand on the chair arm, and he repossessed it, his thumb gently stroked the back of it, his fingers warm on her palm.

Ignoring his wine, Clayborne reached out to trace the shape of Rebecca’s face, her upturned nose, the column of her long neck. In a trance she watched him remove the wine glass from her limp hand and set it down on the side table. He drew her to her feet and enfolded her in his arms, allowing her head to rest against his shoulder for a while before he lifted her chin so that her face was raised to his and slowly he lowered his head to kiss her forehead, her nose, her lips.

At first Rebecca tried to think about what was happening, what the consequences would be. But after a moment her mind refused to function at all and she merely responded to the longing kisses she was receiving; gentle, passionate, lingering by turn, until she felt dizzy and clung to him helplessly.

Clayborne picked her up in his arms and strode with her to the door. He managed to open it without relinquishing his hold on her, while Rebecca nestled her head against his chest and refused to think. “Will your maid be waiting up for you?” he asked as they approached her suite.

“I told her not to, but I’m afraid she will.”

“My man won’t be. May I take you to my room?”

Rebecca could not see his face in the dark, and he could not see her nod, but he could feel it. There was a dim light from the fire in the room when they entered. She had never seen the room before, as her mother had shunned it on their tour of the house during the engagement. Clayborne sat down with her on his lap in a Hepplewhite winged chair and began to stroke her silky black hair. Releasing it from its combs, he allowed it to flow down her back, following it with his fingers. He began to unfasten her gown under the hair.

Rebecca clung to him, her arms about his waist. “Jason?”

“Yes, little one?”

“I’m... afraid.”

The hands paused at her back and he studied her face in the flickering glow. “There is nothing to be afraid of,” he said huskily. “I will not hurt you.”

“Oh, Jason, I know that.” Tears formed in her eyes and she blinked them away rapidly. “If you… if we... You are going to be so angry with yourself in the morning.” When he did not speak, but merely regarded her intently, she removed her hands from about his waist and folded them in her lap. “You know you are.”

“I don’t care,” he finally told her stubbornly, his hands again working at the fastenings.

With a sigh Rebecca replaced her arms around his waist and leaned her head against his chest. After a moment her gown was dexterously removed, and then her chemise. There was a sharp intake of breath from her husband and then his firm, warm hands were caressing her—her shoulders, her waist, her hips, her breasts. She lay quietly, shyly in his arms, a strange warmth starting to invade her body. His lips brushed her hair while he murmured soft, incoherent words. Then he lifted her and carried her to the bed.

Standing there above her, entranced, he began to loosen his cravat, his eyes roaming over her body. Why shouldn’t he have her? She was his wife. And ever since he had held her, carried her, earlier in the day, the desire for her had grown until it overwhelmed him. She looked so vulnerable, the big eyes still over-moist, but softened with an awakening desire, trusting him. We could lead a normal, married life, he told himself firmly. But her voice haunted him— “You will be so angry with yourself in the morning.” And he would be, he knew it. Angry that he had given in to his desire, that he had not kept her at the distance he intended.

Clayborne was now stripped to the waist, and he seated himself on the bed to remove his shoes. He reached over to run a finger along his wife’s lips, and Rebecca recognized the moment of decision on his face as he leaned over to pick up the dressing gown his man had laid out for him. His voice came gently. “You are right, little one. Forgive me.” Then he bundled her small frame into his long dressing gown and walked with her to the connecting door. “Rebecca?”

“I understand,” she whispered sadly. “I’ll go in alone, please, Jason.”

He nodded, anguished, and watched her disappear silently through the door. Returning to where her clothes lay in a heap on the floor he began, slowly, to pick them up and smooth out the wrinkles.

How was it that she could understand how he would feel in the morning? Why was it that she had stopped him for his peace of mind? If she was so sensitive to his feelings, why in God’s name would she not admit that she had slept with another man? She need not even ask his forgiveness; he was ready to allow her to arrange that matter with her own conscience. But he could not live with the lie between them! Remembering their discussion on the road to town, he thought, I don’t want you to be humble and apologetic, only honest with me, and somehow I will learn to live with the rest. Damn it, that’s not asking so much, is it?

In her room Rebecca woke the dozing Harpert and sent her off. When the maid had left, she climbed into bed, still in the dressing gown. He had been so gentle with her, so... loving. Perhaps all men were like that when they tried to seduce their wives. No, she thought not. Men could have their wives whenever they wished, her mother had said, but Clayborne was not like that. If he wished to sleep with his wife, he would be kind.

And for close to a year he had not chosen to sleep with his wife. Why now? Was his desire roused by their continually being together? And would it one day overcome his scruples? Rebecca almost hoped that it would. Somehow it indicated that his disgust for her had diminished. He was far too proud to sleep with her if he loathed her, she felt sure. And he had smiled at her sometimes these last few days. Was he softening in his attitude toward her? She hugged the dressing gown about her and fell asleep.

In the morning Rebecca and Clayborne stood side by side at the doorway to wave farewell to her aunt and cousin. They watched Mrs. Rotham settle herself smugly on the comfortable squabs and sigh, while Sally remembered the party she had missed in Bath the previous evening and glowered. Rebecca turned to him when the carriage was out of sight and smiled hesitantly. “Well, that is that. Meg and I have some shopping to do for the rout tomorrow. Mary doesn’t want to come with us, so she will have to find something here to amuse herself.”