A Fine Passion (31 page)

“Well!” She blew out a breath and settled back against the carriage seat. “I must say, I’m amazed that Alton, Roger, and Nigel have all chosen so wisely. Sarah, Alice, and Emily all seem lovely but capable, with the requisite backbone to manage in our circles.”

Through the shadows intermittently lit by the streetlights outside, Jack studied her face, read her satisfaction. “The males of your family seem to have a penchant for choosing strong women. Your father married your mother, after all.”

Clarice looked struck, then grimanced. “Even Moira. One can hardly describe her as weak.”

Jack nodded, his face hardening. “Unprincipled, but not weak.”

They said little else as they clattered through the streets. When the carriage, Alton’s town carriage borrowed for the evening, halted, Jack descended, handed Clarice down, and let the carriage go on without him. He escorted Clarice into Benedict’s foyer, kissed her hand, caught her eye, then bowed and left her.

Fifteen minutes later, after dismissing the maid who’d been waiting for her, Clarice opened the door of her suite to him. He wasn’t surprised when, without a word, she led him to the bedroom. But when she turned to him, and paused, studying his face, he reached for her, drew her to him, and kissed her.

Ravenously. Making no secret of his need for her.

She responded, ardent and willful, demanding and commanding in her own right. Yet tonight he wasn’t in any mood to let her distract and deflect him; she was still wearing her green satin gown.

In the instant he’d seen it on her, he’d been visited by a fiery fantasy to strip it from her, inch by slow inch. To reveal each creamy curve, each ivory limb, ultimately to let it fall away, leaving her clad only in the shimmering gauze of her chemise.

When, at length, the green gown did indeed swoosh to the floor, to his infinite satisfaction, she was heated and urgent. Wrapping her arms about his neck, she pressed herself to him in flagrant entreaty, meeting his lips, his tongue with a bold challenge of her own, taunting and daring, wanting him to take her.

Lips locked with hers, he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, let them fall unheeded to the floor, then he lifted her. To his surprise, she raised her long legs and wound them about his hips.

Temptation didn’t whisper, it roared.

Far too loudly to ignore. His arms circling her hips, holding her to him, he walked the few paces to the bed; without breaking from the kiss, without releasing her, he clambered onto the silk coverlet on his knees. Juggling her, he reached beneath her and opened the placket of his trousers, releasing his already aching erection; guiding the head immediately to the slick, swollen flesh of her entrance, he pressed in.

Then he shifted his hold to her hips, and drew her down. Sank slowly down to sit on his ankles as he did, pulling her down over him, impaling her fully upon him, feeling her squirm, adjust, then gasp as he thrust the last inch and filled her completely.

Eyes closed, she drew back from the kiss, panting, breasts rising and falling dramatically before his face. He grinned, focused and intent; with one hand, he trapped the fine fabric of her chemise and drew it up, over her head. She had to let go of his shoulders to untangle her arms, to draw them free and let the chemise fall. While she did, he bent his head to her breast, with his mouth traced a path to one tightly furled nipple, then drew it deep.

Her gasp filled the room.

She straddled him, naked but for her silk stockings and garters, while he remained fully clothed; catching her breath in something close to desperation, she started to ride him. To rise up, then sink down, easing her scalding sheath about his rigid length, tightening, then releasing, then rolling her hips down and across his, experimenting, searching, it seemed, for the fastest way to drive him beyond all control.

At first, he indulged her, indulged his curiosity over what she might do, indulged his taste for her luscious breasts. Part of his mind kept track of their escalating hunger, their burgeoning need; when the time was right, he rose to his knees and tipped her back, caught and straightened her long legs, stripped off her stockings and garters, then wound her bare legs about his waist.

Instinctively, she locked her ankles in the small of his back, then realized. He caught a glimpse of dark fire beneath her lashes as the vulnerability—the helplessness—of her position struck home. Before she could react and shift, he caught her hips fully to his again, lifting her and working her over him, about him.

She tried to move with him, against him, to direct, to press, only to discover that without the leverage of her legs, she could do nothing but accept every stroke he pressed on her, every sliding penetration of his body deep into hers. Lids falling on a strangled gasp, she surrendered, letting her shoulders fall back on the bed, breasts heaving as she struggled to catch her breath, struggled to retain some degree of control, but he’d already stripped the reins away.

He moved her on him, and she writhed; he watched and drove her on. Ultimately, he lowered her hips to the bed, bracing over her to thrust deep into the scalding heat of her body, totally open to him, his to take.

To fill, to complete.

Clarice felt the wave of completion start from her toes, swelling as it rose through her, sweeping all she was, her mind, her wits, her senses up, ever upward into a shattering climax. He joined her bare seconds later; together they clung, burned as the glory raged and took them, then at the last, faded, leaving them slumped, exhausted, wrung out and boneless, tossed like rag dolls on the wide expanse of her bed.

Sometime later, she recovered enough to smile, to feel her lips curve at the now-familiar glow of aftermath washing through her. Delicious. So desirable.

Fingers riffling through his hair, she lay beneath him, mentally chuckling for no real reason as her naked body cooled beneath the hard warmth of his. He was still clothed, which seemed rather ridiculous.

Apparently he agreed. With a grunt, he lifted from her, then sat up, and stripped off his clothes, apparently no more able to walk than she. Eventually naked, he rose, staggered the few steps to her dressing table, and doused the lamp. Returning to kneel beside her, he lifted her to the pillows, wrestled the covers from beneath them both, then drew them up, settling her against him in the billows of her bed.

He relaxed; she felt all tension leave his muscles, then his breathing deepened, and he slept.

Still boneless in the grip of sated languor, she smiled, feeling her lips curve against the skin of his upper chest.

She loved this, loved him, loved the way they shared, the way he allowed her to lead, then took the reins himself, passing them back and forth…

She heard her words in her head. She blinked, stopped.

Tried to tell herself she hadn’t actually meant that word in quite that way…knew in her heart, to her soul, that she was lying.

Carefully, without disturbing him, she eased back in the arm that even now held her close, and rolled onto her back. Staring up at the shadowed ceiling, she frowned. Tried to focus her mind, to work it out, to see where the path she’d so blithely followed until now truly led.

It seemed to have taken an unexpected turn…or was it simply that she’d gone a trifle further in her journey into this until-him-forbidden landscape than she’d anticipated? She’d certainly ventured into unforeseen terrain.

Unbidden, Claire’s words floated through her mind, Claire’s conviction that, contrary to her expectations, she hadn’t finalized the details of her life.

She’d thought she had, that accepting banishment to the country had defined her entire future, that there would be no more new possibilities, no different roads opening up before her feet.

But…

She glanced at the man lying sleeping beside her, felt his body hard against the length of hers.

Felt a tug deep in her heart, followed by a painful wrench at the thought that this—this unexpected comfort and peace—might not continue to be hers.

She might not yet be able to define where her life was headed, but one point was crystal clear.

Things
had
changed.

She
had changed.

H
aving again returned to the Bastion Club before dawn, Jack set out after breakfast, feeling in excellent health. Hailing a hackney, he hied himself to Brook Street, Benedict’s, and Boadicea.

He found her in her suite, entertaining her brothers over the breakfast cups. He smiled genially at them all. Alton eyed his transparent content with suspicion. Clarice poured him a cup of coffee and handed it to him with a warning glance.

“We were about to discuss how best to counteract any rumor, to ensure it’s dismissed out of hand, or at least denied any chance to spread and grow.” Clarice paused to sip as Jack drew up a chair beside her. “I think”—she glanced at Jack—“that raising the matter
ourselves
, before any whispers can gain hold, and stating, flatly, that such an outrageous notion is, quite obviously, untrue, might be our best approach. What do you think?”

He considered, then nodded. Across the breakfast table, he met Alton’s eyes. “In most instances, I’d consider such a tack unwise, but in your case, you have the name, the status. It seems pointless not to use it.”

“Precisely.” Clarice nodded decisively. “Especially as we know James
is
perfectly innocent. There’s no risk whatever in the family’s supporting him.”

“And the fact that we are openly rallying behind him will give even the most inveterate gossipmongers pause,” Alton said.

“That certainly worked with Lady Grimwade and Mrs. Raleigh.” Clarice set down her cup. “I saw them last night, and if their expressions were anything to judge by, they were still being extremely cautious.”

“Actually”—Nigel pushed aside his empty plate—“I rather think old James will be safe enough, at least for the next week or so.” He glanced at Alton. “From what I saw and heard last night, the ton have found another Altwood to speculate about.”

“Alton?” Clarice frowned.

“No.” Nigel looked at her. “You.”

“
Me?
” Clarice sat up. “Why on earth…” Her words trailed away, but her puzzled frown remained. She studied Nigel. “What are they saying?”

“Not saying—speculating. Everyone’s wondering why you’re back, and regardless, who will, as many see it, pick up the gauntlet.”

“
What
gauntlet?” Clarice asked, her tone tending dire.

“The one you threw down last night,” Nigel replied. “When you waltzed with Warnefleet here down Mrs. Henderson’s ballroom.”

When Clarice looked stunned, Nigel snorted. “Good God, you haven’t been out of town
that
long. You know what subject’s closest to the old biddies’ hearts. French spies and traitors will do in a pinch, but give them the prospect of a highborn spinster still handsome and weddable, still eminently well heeled and eligible, and they’re not going to bother with treason.”

When Clarice continued to stare, apparently struck dumb, Nigel grinned. “At least you’ve solved the problem of them gossiping about James.”

Clarice groaned, shut her eyes, and slumped back in her chair. “I don’t believe it!”

But she did. As Nigel had said, her returning to the ton for the first time in seven years, and then waltzing in the arms of a handsome lord, himself a matrimonial target, was behavior guaranteed to capture the ton’s fickle interest.

“Never mind.” Abruptly she sat up, opening her eyes. She wasn’t going to dwell on it. “What’s done is done, and as you say, it will help shield James.”

“As long,” Alton said, “as you continue to feed the gossips.”

Clarice looked at him, caught him exchanging a glance she couldn’t interpret with Jack beside her. “What do you mean?”

Alton shrugged. “Just that, for James’s sake, it would be helpful if you continued to swan around in the evenings, being seen about generally, the usual sort of thing. While they’re focusing on you, they won’t be wondering about James.”

Clarice expressed her deep antipathy to the notion with a disgusted and dismissive humph.

Jack set down his coffee cup, drawing her attention; he caught her eye. “Think of it as achieving the objective you were aiming for, just by a different route. Just because you hadn’t planned it doesn’t mean it won’t work, and as Melton said, keeping the ton focused on you won’t require much effort.”

Jack wasn’t surprised when her gaze turned considering. He kept his lips shut, slanted a sharp glance at Alton to ensure he did the same. Somewhat taken aback by the unvoiced directive, Alton did, and was rewarded when Clarice wagged her head from side to side, weighing the matter, then reluctantly conceded, “All right. But only if there’s nothing definite to do in furthering James’s defence.

“Incidentally”—she looked at Alton—“before I forget, while I don’t imagine Moira will do anything truly drastic, like poison anyone, thinking back over her campaign to control you, I kept wondering why. She’s wealthy enough—as you said it’s not the money. So what else?”

Roger looked at his brothers, then replied, “We don’t know. She’s a female. Does there have to be a ‘what else’?”

Clarice narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes. There does. And I think I know what, or rather who, it is. Carlton.”

Her brothers blinked at her. Jack had no idea who Carlton was.

Alton frowned. “The succession?”

Jack recalled hearing that Moira had borne the youngest of the previous marquess’s four sons.

“Not precisely.” Clarice sat straighter “It would be amazing by any standard were he to inherit, with the three of you, all hale and whole, before him.
However
, while none of you are married, and there are no children in your nurseries, then…well, Carlton does have some claim. He’s third in line and is ten years younger than Nigel, after all. If the three of you go to your graves bachelors, then Carlton will inherit, no matter he might be old by that time. So as long as the knowledge that all three of you are about to marry remains secret, the
perception
that Carlton has some chance to eventually succeed to the marquisate continues unchallenged as the commonly held notion.”

“So it is money. Moneylenders…” Alton broke off, frowning. “No, that won’t wash. If he’s deep in debt, I would have heard.”

Clarice snorted. “I told you it wasn’t money—that’s not the point.
Weddings
are the point, on all fronts, Carlton’s included. While the three of you remain bachelors, Carlton can look reasonably high for a bride, but the instant even one of you marry, Carlton’s matrimonial stocks fall. If all three of you wed, Carlton’s standing falls to that of a mere younger son with no real prospects. Moira wants her daughter-in-law’s family to be as wealthy and influential as possible, so the last thing she wants is for you three to marry—or more specifically for the ton to realize all three of you are about to marry—before she can get Carlton wed.”

Her brothers looked shocked. “He’s only twenty-one!” Roger protested.

Clarice met his eyes. “Do you think that’ll stop Moira? Especially now she knows you’re all on the verge of making offers that, of course, will be accepted?”

“Good God! I never thought I’d be sorry for the little twerp.” Nigel looked horrified. “Fancy being leg-shackled at the age of twenty-one.”

Clarice, predictably, wasn’t impressed. “Never mind Carlton. Unless he’s changed mightily, I’d wager he has no intention of offering for any well-bred miss that Moira selects. He just won’t tell her until that point is reached. He never was one for unnecessary effort.”

“True.” Roger frowned at Clarice. “So Moira doesn’t really care about
whom
we wed, just that we shouldn’t make our intentions public yet?”

“That seems likely, so that gives you time to arrange your affairs. If you make offers all at once, or rather if the announcements all appear in the
Gazette
on the same day, and Moira hears nothing from any other source until then, then all should be well.”

Alton caught Roger’s eye. “We’ll have to be careful what we say, do, or even write inside Melton House. That maid of Moira’s is the very devil—she sneaks around all over the place, poking here and there.”

“But it should be doable,” Nigel said. “We just have to get our affairs in order, make our offers formally and be accepted, then we can trump Moira all at once, and have done with this business.”

Clarice nodded. “Indeed. That’s exactly what you should do, and meanwhile I’ll do my best to distract the ton from James. Regardless of all that, however, we still need to accomplish what I came to London to do—exonerate James of these nonsensical charges.”

There was a note in her voice that made her brothers sit up. “Yes, of course,” Alton said. “What do you want us to do?”

Clarice looked at Jack; her brothers followed her lead.

He’d come prepared. “There are three specific meetings at which we want to prove James was not present.” Drawing a sheet of paper from his pocket, he handed it to Alton. “If you can check around the family and all James’s friends, his clubs, anywhere he might have been, and see if anyone remembers seeing him on those dates, at those times, we’ll have the first nails to drive into the coffin to bury these allegations.”

Alton read the list, then nodded. “Right. We’ll get on with this.”

“While you do, I’ll see what I can devise to free you and Sarah from Moira’s web. Just don’t do anything more until I tell you.” Clarice looked at Roger and Nigel. “Meanwhile, you two reprobates are free to make best use of your persuasive talents and get formal acceptance of your offers for Alice and Emily’s hands.”

Both Roger and Nigel looked delighted.

“But only after you help Alton with gathering information for James’s defence.”

With a rumble of reassurances, the brothers rose, kissed Clarice’s cheek, glanced askance at Jack when she wasn’t looking, but left without challenging his presence.

He felt for them, but…

When Clarice closed the door behind them and turned back to him, he had a slim notelet in his hand. He waved it. “Lady Davenport and Lady Cowper request our presence at Davenport House.”

She halted, wide-eyed. “When?” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Half an hour.”

“
Arrghh
!” She glared at him. “Why is it that gentlemen never understand how long it takes to get dressed?”

Given she swung on her heel and strode into the bedroom, he surmised the question was rhetorical. He followed more slowly; leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, he watched her strip off the morning gown she’d been wearing, then hunt through a wardrobe that appeared remarkably well stocked. Pulling out a bronze-and-ivory-striped silk confection, she donned it, then imperiously presented her back to him and demanded he do up her laces.

Lips twitching, he complied, then watched as she redid her hair.

He’d never before found observing such female primping all that interesting, but watching Clarice…every graceful movement, every feminine gesture, fascinated. Almost mesmerized. He watched her brush out her long hair, remembered what it felt like swirling about him in the night…meanwhile another, more grounded part of his mind trod a more serious path.

He was increasingly certain he didn’t want her going about alone, even during the day in the heart of Mayfair. He hadn’t forgotten the incident with the two strange men in Bruton Street, nor the inherent threat of the round-faced man. And now, it seemed, her stepmother had good reason to wish Clarice elsewhere, removed from interfering in her schemes.

Unlike Clarice, he wasn’t so ready to excuse Moira from any felonious intent; the harpy he’d seen would have scratched Clarice’s eyes out given half a chance. And losing her grip, a grip she’d probably thought secure, over Alton, his brothers, and the marquisate in general, would be galling. Especially if hand in hand with such a loss went a lessening of social standing. That last would definitely occur if Clarice returned permanently to the ton.

She wasn’t planning to do so, but Moira didn’t know that, and probably wouldn’t believe it even if told by Clarice herself. From Moira’s perspective, the pleasures of Avening couldn’t hope to compete with those of London.

Clarice tied a modish bonnet over her dark hair. Jack straightened. She would scoff at any warning of personal danger, at any request to take greater care. To take a footman or two as escort.

He smiled charmingly as she swept toward him, and offered his arm. No point arguing; he’d escort her himself.

“Lady Clarice, it’s a pleasure to welcome you.” Tall and imposing, handsome in a severe, well-bred way, Lady Davenport nodded approvingly and touched fingers with Clarice, then her gaze deflected to Jack, standing by Clarice’s elbow. “And you, too, Warnefleet. As it’s due to Lady Clarice that you’re here, I can only be grateful for her influence.”

Jack summoned his most charming smile and bestowed it on his aunt.

She humphed and turned to introduce Clarice to the small, round lady by her side. “I believe you’ll recall my sister?”

“Indeed.” Serenely assured, Clarice smiled and bobbed a curtsy of nicely judged degree. Despite Emily, Lady Cowper’s, preeminence among the ton’s hostesses, Clarice was her better in terms of birth.

Emily was more overtly expressive than her sister, more openly keen to embrace Clarice and all she promised; Jack read her enthusiasm with ease.

“My dear Lady Clarice, I’m delighted to meet you again.” Smiling radiantly, Emily pressed Clarice’s hand, then waved to the third
grande dame
gracing the elegant drawing room. “And no doubt you’ll remember Lady Osbaldestone, too.”

“Ma’am.” Clarice nodded, a touch reserved, rather careful, to the impressive and distinctly intimidating older lady who studied her, then Jack, with a sharply assessing black gaze.

Then Lady Osbaldestone’s brows rose; her expression eased. She beckoned imperiously. “Come sit by me, gel, so I can see you better.” Sinking back onto the chaise, Lady Osbaldestone waited until Lady Davenport and Lady Cowper had resumed their seats, and Clarice had obeyed and sat beside her, before, shooting a saber-sharp glance at Jack, standing with one arm braced on the mantelpiece, she thumped her cane lightly on the polished floor, for all the world as if bringing some meeting to order. “Now, then,” she said. “What’s this I hear about your cousin James and treason?”