The Scandalous Proposal Of Lord Bennett
Raven McAllan
To have and to hold?Reluctant debutante Lady Clarissa Macpherson has never forgotten the forbidden kiss she shared with notorious rake, Lord Theodore Bennett, all those years ago. Even now, he’s the one man who sets Clarissa’s pulse racing and her skin tingling – no matter how hard she tries to ignore it!Yet, when Theodore rescues her from the unwanted advances of a drunken Lord at a society ball, she finds herself in a most scandalous predicament – engaged, to the most eligible bachelor in London!Wedded? It appears so, but bedded? Clarissa demands more from her marriage than simply surrendering to her new husband’s sexual desires, especially when she realises she’s falling deeper in love with him every single day. Theodore must prove that she’s the only woman for him – and surrender his heart!Yet resisting her new husband’s delicious seduction may prove the hardest thing Clarissa has ever done…Praise for Raven McAllan‘Wonderfully written and easy to sink into – I’ll definitely look to read more from Raven McAllan!’ – Paris Baker Book Nook Reviews‘A truly delicious step back in time that has left me hungry for more. If you're a regency fan, then I suggest you delve into this, it will tease and tantalise until the very last page!’ – Becca’s Books
To have and to hold?
Reluctant debutante Lady Clarissa Macpherson has never forgotten the forbidden kiss she shared with notorious rake, Lord Theodore ‘Ben’ Bennett, all those years ago. Even now, he’s the one man who sets Clarissa’s pulse racing and her skin tingling – no matter how hard she tries to ignore it!
Yet, when Ben rescues her from the unwanted advances of a drunken Lord at a society ball, she finds herself in a most scandalous predicament – engaged, to the most eligible bachelor in London.
Wedded? It appears so, but bedded? Clarissa demands more from her marriage than simply surrendering to her new husband’s sexual desires, especially when she realises she’s falling deeper in love with him every single day. Ben must prove that she’s the only woman for him – and surrender his heart.
Yet resisting her new husband’s delicious seduction may prove the hardest thing Clarissa has ever done…
The Scandalous Proposal of Lord Bennett
Raven McAllan
www.CarinaUK.com (http://www.CarinaUK.com)
RAVEN MCALLAN
lives in Scotland, the land of lochs, glens, mountains, haggis, men in kilts (sometimes) and midges. She enjoys all of them—except midges. They’re not known as the scourge of Scotland for nothing.
Her long-suffering husband has learned how to work the Aga, ignore the dust bunnies who share their lives, and pour the wine when necessary.
Raven loves history, which is just as well, considering she writes Regency romance, and often gets so involved in her research she forgets the time.
She loves to travel, and says she and her hubby are doing their gap year in three week stints. All in the name of research of course.
She loves to hear from her readers and you can contact her via her website www.ravenmcallan.com (https://www.ravenmcallan.com)
To Paul, UCW and the RavDor Chicks for their support, and to Carina for their faith in me.
To Charlotte for her hard work in getting this book from me to you.
Contents
Cover (#u84d2bc51-697d-56f1-844c-289249a7d3ea)
Blurb (#uc1e3a3a0-afe2-5caa-a535-1e0420d13383)
Title Page (#u8f32de50-f0d3-5d64-ab90-cba82ed1971a)
Author Bio (#uf50626b2-eada-5f75-9633-8c642e39b5e1)
Dedication (#u7fc77421-17c2-5419-bb58-c40ddee54e31)
Acknowledgements (#u15c0b453-3fc5-5423-963d-606deb557808)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u348dba5c-fc91-5e1e-b3bd-2527c409ab46)
I hate balls. Balls, and stupid so-called gentlemen of the ton, who are no gentlemen at all. Debs, balls, catty gossips and yes, bloody balls.
Why on earth had her papa insisted she attend? He knew as well as she did, she had no wish to dance. She’d spend most of the night fending off inappropriate advances from idiots who thought because she’d reached a certain age and was unwed, she would welcome their attention, and need their protection, be it improper or not.
How wrong could they be?
Lady Clarissa Macpherson stared at one young buck in such a way that he blanched, took a step backwards, turned away and muttered something to his companion.
Of course it had to be Lord Theodore Bennett who stood next to the idiot. Lord Bennett grinned and, as he saw her watching, bowed mockingly. The one man who got under her guard and made her wonder, what if …
It was oh so easy to cast her mind back to the one time the ‘what if’ almost became ‘now I know’.
If only.
It was enough to make a saint swear, and Clarissa was no saint.
She’d been sixteen, and not yet out. The summer was hot, and she’d spent a few weeks at the ancestral seat in Northumberland with her father, and unusually, no house party. Even her best friend had left to return to her own home and Clarissa was bored.
Phillip, her elder brother, had called unexpectedly with one of his closest friends. Lord Theodore Bennett was everything a woman could want in a man, and everything she shouldn’t. Wealthy, tall, dark and handsome – and the sort of rake mamas warned their daughters not to associate with, unless in a large crowd, and preferably with the said mama to watch every move. As Clarissa’s mama had died when she was young, it fell to her godmother to tell her … Watch him. Which she did, although probably not in the manner meant.
As in the ways of a brother, Phillip had ignored Clarissa and the two young men spent most of their time roaming the estate. If it had stayed like that, perhaps her attitude would have been different.
However …
Clarissa had watched Phillip and Ben walk towards the copse with guns and bags and surmised they were after pheasants. Her father was ensconced in his study with the factor, and had no time to spend with her. Therefore, she reasoned, no one would know if she sneaked off to fish. It had taken mere minutes to put on an old – and somewhat too tight and several inches too short – shabby gown and her elderly sandals and purloin a slice of bread from the kitchen while the chef was otherwise engaged. Then she’d headed to the river in the opposite direction from that which the men had taken.
Three fish and four hours later, she’d looked at the sun and realised she’d better make haste to get home in time to tidy up for dinner. The fish were too small to eat, and thus returned to the water before she scrambled up the bank and ran headfirst into a tree trunk.
It hadn’t been there before. Clarissa put out her hand to steady herself and touched … not bark, but body.
A hard male body.
What followed was either the stuff of dreams or nightmares, depending on your point of view.
Lord Theodore Bennett steadied her and grinned.
‘A water nymph or a poacher?’
She stared at his wicked expression, and was unable to speak. A great lump of disappointment hit her squarely in the stomach. He didn’t recognise her.
‘Whichever, I think you owe me something,’ he continued. ‘As you ran into me … Now let me see, what shall I demand as a forfeit?’ He cocked his head and stroked his finger over one of her cheeks.
She shivered and, to her horror, swayed and moaned.
He chuckled. ‘Ah, sadly not enough time. But this I think …’ He pulled her close until their bodies touched, bent his head and, for the first time in her life, Clarissa felt a man’s torso against her own, and his lips on hers.
‘Open, sweetness, let me taste more.’ His voice was thick and guttural.
More? She opened her mouth to voice the question and almost swooned. His tongue pushed into her mouth, and played with hers and oh goodness, something rigid and hard pressed against her belly. It was strange, exciting and … scary. His hands crept around her waist and scribed circles on her rear.
‘Oh yes …’ He sighed the words, and she stiffened as they impinged on her thoughts. Oh yes, what?
Lord Bennett drew back as if he’d been stung, and stared at her with unfocused eyes. Then his gaze sharpened. He let her go and took a step backwards. ‘You’d best go back to the village while you can. Did no one warn you of the animals you find roaming the countryside? Especially with your ankles on show. Enough to get the juices flowing. Run home, little girl, before I forget I am, allegedly, a gentleman as well as a rake.’
She ran.
With hindsight she could only approve of his restraint. Although, at the time, hearing Lord Bennett tell her brother of the beautiful village wench who had made his cock stiff and how he had ached for her, she wished different. He reckoned she would have willingly rolled over for him if he had persevered. After all he was well able to seduce a response from a female. As it hadn’t been said in a boastful manner, Clarissa saw nothing wrong with his reasoning. She pressed her ear to the door to hear more.
Phillip had laughed. ‘You mean you have enough willing women, so you chose not to take her up on her offer.’
To Clarissa, unable to see either of them, Lord Bennett’s answer seemed somewhat stiff. It wasn’t, he said, his way to tease a young woman, and bed her for no reason, beautiful or not
Clarissa didn’t know whether to be mortified that he hadn’t recognised her or upset he hadn’t carried on. But she preened at the idea he thought her beautiful.
Now, years later, in an overcrowded ballroom, full of the scents and aromas of humans, flowers and beeswax, she’d had enough of the Hemmingtons and their ball, enough of the capital, and more than enough of her peers. Clarissa made her way to the ladies’ withdrawing room, and accepted a glass of orgeat as she tidied her hair and washed her hands. When could she reasonably leave?
Sadly not yet, and worse was still to come. As she left the room, she spied Lord Theodore Bennett standing nearby. He was the last person she could cope with at that moment. Why couldn’t she be aroused by someone other than him? An acknowledged rake of the first water, he still made her senses reel and her skin tingle. With a toss of her head – after all, she couldn’t show how he affected her – Clarissa whisked into another anteroom and leant against the window frame. Her tummy churned. The way he affected her was ridiculous. At sixteen it was surely instant lust. At six and twenty it should be long dead and buried. He probably thought of her as an irritant. One to be ignored. After all, he’d never said one word to make her think that his friend’s sister was his willing village wench in Northumberland.
How long would she need to skulk?
She wasn’t about to find out. The door opened and Ferdy Pendragon entered. Could it get any worse? It seemed it could.
‘Yu … Yesh …’
She sighed. He was as drunk as a fly in a vat of ale.
‘Go away.’
He blinked and stumbled towards her.
‘Ha. You lured me.’
Clarissa had to laugh. She’d never lured anyone anywhere in her life, let alone an imbecile like him. With a growl, she poked him, and bit back a smirk as he rocked on his heels.
‘Shm n …’
‘You are addlepated and mistaken. Go far, far, away.’ She couldn’t help it. Clarissa laughed again. Sadly the laugh was a red rag to a bull.
He roared … well, almost. It was, she decided, a pathetic attempt at showing who was in charge.
‘Rub … bb … bish, and here I am.’ He held his arms out and swayed.
‘You are the one talking rubbish. Drunken rubbish at that. Go away before I … I knee you.’
‘Do … don’t be like that. I’m all for you, you know … every bit of me.’ His eyes crossed, as he hiccoughed and burped. Had he so little between his ears that he couldn’t believe that she spurned him?
‘If you do not leave me alone, this instant, your body will be missing some vital parts,’ Clarissa threatened him harshly. ‘You are a pest, and pests deserve to be squashed.’
Sadly he was so full of his own importance, and alcohol, he didn’t believe her. Ferdy grabbed her arms, and pulled her so close to him that she wouldn’t have been surprised to be overcome by brandy fumes. He put one large foot on her flounce, which effectively anchored her where she was. Clarissa began to wonder if this once she had found herself in a situation she couldn’t control, and it worried her.
No, I am not a victim. Not now, not ever. Clarissa gathered her panicky self together. She could cope, and cope with ease. Ferdy needed showing what for. She was about to box his ears, and if necessary follow through with something more drastic, when Lord Bennett stalked in and took stock of the situation. He grabbed the hapless Ferdy by the shoulders, boxed his ears much more successfully that Clarissa would have managed, spun him around and forcibly manhandled him out of the room.
‘Do not ever let me see you behave like this again, do you understand? If a lady says no, a male, be he a gentleman or not, listens and takes heed. Is that clear?’
Ferdy had stuttered, protested and agreed. Lord Bennett scowled as he slammed the door shut with a bang that made Clarissa jump, before he returned, to cross his arms over his chest and stare at her broodingly.
‘Do you have the sense you were born with? What on earth are you doing alone in a room with him? He could have done whatever he wanted and you’d have been helpless to stop him.’
Clarissa went on the offensive.
‘Rubbish! I could have coped with him. He’s a worm. A bosky worm at that.’ Even as she spoke the words, Clarissa was uneasily aware they weren’t necessarily the truth. Ferdy had been more insistent than she had thought possible and Lord Bennett’s intervention was a timely relief. Ferdy had been drunk enough not to listen to reason, and strong enough to make her more than slightly worried. ‘I’m alone with you. Are you going to pounce?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Do not tempt me.’
Why had she retreated into that room anyway? To hide from the man who now stared at her. That was even more idiotic. What on earth made her think such a sought-after man would look for her? What a waste of effort it had been.
‘I’m sorry you felt you had to intervene,’ Clarissa said stiffly.
‘Would you have preferred me not to?’ His voice was glacial. ‘To leave you to him? Really?’
‘Well, no. Thank you.’
He bowed. ‘Said with such grace, my dear.’
Grr. Why did he have to make her feel an inch tall?
‘I meant it. Now, pray excuse me.’ That ‘slightly worried’ became ‘full blown extremely worried’ as she turned to walk around Lord Bennett, tripped and he caught her before she measured her length on the Aubusson carpet. ‘Bloody Ferdy stood on my gown.’ She twisted to try and see if anything was amiss. Without lifting her skirts to her thighs it was impossible.
Lord Bennett muttered something under his breath. ‘Stand still, woman – you’ll do yourself an injury. Let me look.’
‘You’ll see my ankles.’
He snorted. ‘I’d need to see a lot more than an ankle, well turned or not, to ravish you here and now. This room is not conducive to seduction, believe me.’
Well, you would know that, wouldn’t you? Clarissa thought snippily. No doubt he knew all the best places for such things.
‘Hold on, where abouts? Just here?’ Ben knelt on the floor at her feet and checked her gown wasn’t ripped. ‘Although I must add, this ankle could perhaps persuade me differently.’ He winked at her.
She chuckled. His cheerful attitude banished her bad temper instantly. ‘In your dreams.’
‘You are quite right, my dear. Frequently.’ His tone was so serious she jumped.
Really?
He stroked her ankle. ‘Careful. If you put your foot down it won’t just be your flounce in tatters. My wrist will have joined it. Then you’d need to kiss it better.’
In this mood it was all too easy to remember his good points, and his lips on hers.
Clarissa thought she’d stopped breathing as his fingers grazed her skin. A flash of heat danced over the area. Goosebumps hit her and her mouth went dry. He touched me. She shivered. Was this what the pamphlets meant about desire? It was so much more than those lukewarm feelings she’d experienced when he kissed her all those years ago. Much more.
‘It seems …’ He got no further, and she never did find out what seemed what.
‘Argh. Unhand her you, you villain. What do you think you are doing?’ The biggest gossip of the ton sailed into the room and shrieked loud enough to alert the majority of guests at the ball that something was more than amiss. Several other dowagers and two or three debs and their partners followed her and stood and stared at the scene in front of them.
Clarissa shut her eyes. What now? Lord Bennett still knelt at her feet, in the manner of a supplicant … or a cobbler. What on earth made her think of that at such a time? Was it imagine the ridiculous or scream? Probably.
‘What on earth …’ The dowager produced smelling salts and held them under her own nose. She then proceeded to tell them, and the rest of the guests who now crowded through the doorway in the manner of the cows in Hyde Park gathering to be milked, how disgraceful Clarissa’s behaviour was.
None, Clarissa noticed, came close enough to her to give her support.
‘Standing there like a hussy, and letting this, this hell hound, no good, young rake touch her ankles.’ The woman’s shrill voice rose so high, Clarissa wouldn’t have been surprised to see the glass globe around the lamp shatter. ‘What next, eh? Disgraceful. Someone find Lady Jersey. Her vouchers to Almacks must be rescinded at once.’
That had been the only positive highlight of it all. Clarissa hated Almacks with a vengeance. Although the way the dowager worded her demand, it sounded to Clarissa as if it were Lady Jersey’s vouchers that were to be withdrawn. That would be difficult. She was one of the patronesses.
Lord Bennett had straightened up and let the hem of Clarissa’s pale lemon gown drop past her ankles once more. He placed his arm around Clarissa’s waist and nipped her through her dress. Even through layers of silk and petticoats the pressure of his hand warmed her skin, as he put his mouth close to her ear. ‘Bear up, we will survive. I have you.’
He does? I wonder how? She didn’t have long to wait to find out.
‘Madam.’
Clarissa had never heard such ice in his tone. Lord Theodore Bennett, one of the recognised leaders of the ton – albeit a rogue – was renowned for his easy-going geniality. This proper gentleman made the dowager stop speaking mid word, and her mouth hung open in surprise. It struck Clarissa that the woman looked like a fish. A fish in hideous puce silk and lace.
‘If you insist on speaking about my affianced in such a way I will be forced to take drastic action.’ He didn’t say what. However, he did nip Clarissa’s thigh to stop her denying his words.
Affianced? Since when?
She was getting a bit annoyed with all this nipping. Did he think her totally without sense? Very likely after my stupidity in not leaving the minute Ferdy waylaid me. But affianced?
‘Lady Clarissa has just given me the honour of agreeing to be my wife. Be assured you will not be a guest at our nuptials.’
I have?
The woman, who had gone white, then red, stammered and rushed out. Clarissa was afraid it was now she herself who did the fish impression. But thankfully not one in puce silk.
Is he deluded? Nuptials? Surely I couldn’t have missed something like that?
Lord Bennett had somehow whisked Clarissa through the throng of sensation seekers turned well-wishers and taken her to find her father before she had time to ask him what on earth he was doing.
Of course, with so many witnesses to the fiasco, it was no wonder that less than fifteen minutes after they had found her papa, and Lord Bennett had requested a private word, Clarissa and her ‘fiancé’ were being congratulated on their good sense.
‘Even if you did jump the gun and announce it before even asking me.’ Her father’s eyes had twinkled and Clarissa realised he was truly pleased at the news.
Her heart sank.
He was the only one. Lord Bennett looked like he was going to his execution, and Clarissa knew she was. Phillip, her brother, was nowhere to be seen, and she knew without asking he wouldn’t get involved. She was on her own. Nasty spiders crawled over her skin, and her stomach lurched. Could there be anything worse than marriage to a man who never noticed you? One you sadly wished did. One you knew could turn your insides to mawkishness. A man who had, according to gossip, several mistresses? Each one worldly wise and fashionable, neither of which label, to her secret satisfaction, could be attributed to her. Clarissa was happier away from the hustle and bustle of the capital and the petty rules and regulations of the ton. She preferred the simpler life of the country, and she didn’t include house parties in that description.
She ignored the tiny voice that added that, by all accounts, he had satisfied each and every one of those he had chosen to share his talents with. Clarissa was honest enough to accept that she didn’t share, and that the situation would be intolerable. He didn’t want her, whereas she … Yes, she wanted him. But not on the wed, bed, heir and spare, separate rooms, separate lives, take a mistress again, wife take a lover terms that permeated the ton. Heaven knows he might not even dispatch his mistress in the interim. How could any wife survive knowing one of the women around her enjoyed her husband’s body more often that she? Especially when she knew which woman.
I do not share …
‘Papa, I don’t have to marry him. It’s all a bit sudden.’ That was, in her mind, the understatement of the year. Her father would have none of it. After all, as he reminded Clarissa ad nauseam, he had despaired of her ever agreeing to be a wife.
Her affianced left them to talk alone together for a few moments. He informed Clarissa he would return and escort her to the ballroom, where he would then officially introduce his fiancée to the gathered assembly. She assumed he had really departed so he could warn whichever of his mistresses he needed to of his change in status, and assure them that their lives wouldn’t change. Even though his behaviour was the norm for gentlemen of the ton, Clarissa didn’t approve. She suspected most women, if forced to tell the truth, would agree. No way would she be second best.
I do not share.
‘A chattel,’ she corrected her father. ‘And I won’t. It is not to be thought of. We will, of course, rescind the announcement as soon as possible.’
He’d patted her cheek. ‘Silly girl. We will not do that to him. He saved you from ridicule, ruin and more.’
There is more than that?
‘You could do a lot worse,’ her father continued. ‘Think of your mama and I. That is what I want for you.’ As her mama had been lovely, but perfectly content to let her husband take charge of everything, it was a highly unlikely scenario. Wherever Clarissa got her temperament from, it wasn’t her gentle mother.
It seemed to Clarissa that her father was an unstoppable cavalry charge, and to her chagrin her fiancé was no help whatsoever.
‘I need a wife at some point,’ he said in an indifferent tone, when Clarissa taxed him a few days later. He’d called to take her for a mandatory drive in the park.
As they were within sight and probably sound of a great number of their fellow members of the ton, she had to bite her tongue and resist the urge to slap him hard.
‘It might as well be now as later.’ What a stupid statement. And you’ll do as well as anyone, his tone inferred. ‘Plus I will not be made to look like a cad.’
That was it. There was no swerving him from that stated course. She had always suspected he had a chivalrous side, and he had. Hadn’t she once heard that every rake had a redeeming feature, if only they cared to show it? This must be his. It was a pity he didn’t let her know if there was anything more to his desire to be wed to her, other than to help her out of the hole she was in.
Her paternal grandmother came to town to help Clarissa purchase her bridal clothes, and the arrangements went ahead at dizzying speed. She sometimes felt as if she were in a bubble, and no one could hear a word she said. Indeed no one paid any attention to her pronouncements that she didn’t want to marry anyone, let alone a man with a reputation like that of Lord Theodore Bennett.
Not unless he married me because I was his sun, moon and stars. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that. Life would be less than acceptable if he kept to usual ways.
‘He hasn’t changed one bit,’ Clarissa said one morning when the previous night he’d had one duty dance with her and spent the rest of the night squiring Lady Beaufort. A woman who, it was said, spread her favours far and wide. It was a repetition of most events they had attended together. So far Clarissa had bitten her lip and kept her mouth shut, but one moment alone with him and Clarissa feared his ears would ring. Either from her tongue as she gave vent to her feelings, or her hands when she boxed them.
‘He’s as arrogant and unfeeling as ever.’ Clarissa sat down on the chair the footman held out for her. She was conscious she had a flounce and a pout, and neither were becoming. Look what he’s reduced me to.
‘Why should he not be?’ her grandmother asked as she deliberated between two large pastries. ‘He’s a man and he’s not married yet, and your attitude would sour milk, my dear. Have you never heard that to keep a man sweet, you need to be sweet yourself? ’Tis a fact. Anyway, it’s better if your man has spirit and experience. It will make your life all the more pleasant.’ She didn’t say how, and Clarissa was in no mood to ask her to expand on her statement. ‘And you, my love, would walk all over a man with no backbone. You need a strong male to manage you. Whatever your dear papa thinks you are not made in the mould of your mama, God rest her soul.’ Her grandmother took a large bite of pastry, and ended the conversation. Perhaps it was as well. In the mood she was in Clarissa might well have flown into a paroxysm of rage that surpassed anything ever seen before.
Instead she visited her friend Belinda, ostensibly to chat about anything and nothing, and then perhaps seek advice. On arrival it was obvious Belinda had problems of her own – even if she wasn’t openly sharing them all – and Clarissa chose not to tax Belinda even more. Instead she drank herself into a stupor with Belinda’s finest whisky, and Phillip had to be called upon to assist her home.
After some thought, Clarissa appealed to her father, and begged him to let her cry off from the marriage.
‘Say I’m deranged, have consumption… oh, I don’t know, papa – say I’m dead if you like.’ He, poor man, had been appalled. An expression of dismay crossed his face and his lips turned down. Where had he gone wrong? It would have been her mother’s greatest desire to see Clarissa married to such a wealthy and eligible man.
You are wrong. Surely she would have wanted me to be happy? In truth, Clarissa had no idea. She hadn’t known her mother at the sort of age you asked that. Her godmother, Lady Lakenby, yes, but Lady L was well known for being an individual, whose views did not necessarily mirror the majority.
In her papa’s mind, Lord Theodore Bennett was everything a woman could want for in a husband. He begged her to be reasonable. ‘I feared so much you would be left alone when I die, with only Phillip to make sure you wanted for nothing.’
As Phillip was as big a rake as Lord Bennett, that was not a sensible option. His comment on her forthcoming nuptials had been brief. ‘Poor Bennett. Does he know what he is getting into?’
To Clarissa, it seemed completely wrong to say Lord Bennett was everything a woman wanted in a husband. There was a lot she didn’t want. A man who had a mistress, for instance. And although it was true she didn’t like being thwarted, she was a reasonable woman, wasn’t she? One prepared to listen and … maybe not. However, the thought of her beloved mama, and the obvious delight of her father, made her decide it was futile to protest any more. After all, unless she wanted to be an old maid, and the put-upon younger sister, always at the beck and call of her older brother – and any family he eventually had – she had to marry. It may as well be to Lord Bennett as anyone else. She chose to ignore the way her heart sped up when she was near him, and how many of her friends had admitted their envy of her altered circumstances. Apart from his one moment of chivalry, he had done nothing to show he had any regard for her whatsoever.
With a heavy heart, Lady Clarissa Macpherson resigned herself not to accept any nonsense from him or anyone else. How she intended to do that she chose not to ponder over.
The talk her with her grandmother about a woman’s duty had firmed her heart, and she vowed she wasn’t going to be a duty. Indeed it was lucky she and her friends at school had purloined some leaflets and read a little about anatomy. Even though the actual act of love, consummation, whatever you chose to call it, seemed nigh on impossible. Had the leaflet maker being playing a joke? It seemed she would not be long finding out.
Before she had a chance to say bouquets and wedding breakfasts she was married. To a man with whom she had spent no more than half an hour alone, and who, it seemed, preferred to look at the bottom of a brandy glass than at her.
Chapter Two (#u348dba5c-fc91-5e1e-b3bd-2527c409ab46)
Lord Theodore Bennett, known to his friends as Ben, and to his enemies – of whom there were several – as that bloody Bennett, rolled over in bed, and opened one brandy-bleary eye. No doubt if a mirror were handy, the eye would be as blood red as the wine he thought followed the brandy. Or was that before? Ben was more than a little hazy with regard to the previous night’s activities. The last he remembered was accepting a wager that he couldn’t empty the overlarge glass put in front of him, in one go. Had he? He had no idea, but it was a certainty someone would let him know if he owed them money.
Ben sighed, winced as the noise set off a blacksmith’s hammer in his head, stretched, and froze. Why was a bolster down the middle of his bed? A soft squidgy flesh-covered bolster? He patted it cautiously and it moved. He dropped his hand as if it were scalded, and tried to bring his thoughts into some form of order. It wasn’t easy.
A woman? He never spent the night with a woman. Never, ever. Bed them and leave them had always been his motto. And not in his own bed. That was a given. Everyone knew and accepted that. Didn’t they?
Somewhere in the back of his fragmented mind he remembered music and damned doves flying overhead. Doves, for fuck’s sake, and he didn’t even get a chance to take a pot shot at them. Had he been to Vauxhall to watch one of the many spectacles there? No, the music had been ‘churchy’, and … Oh my lord. A wife. I have a wife. The events of the previous day came back to him with immediate and hideous clarity. This needed to be discussed further. He reached out to the softness next to him and squeezed.
The bolster stirred and muttered something. Even in his less than awake state it didn’t sound complimentary. He pulled his hand back again. Soft fingers fumbled over his body, and fastened on his morning erection.
The screech sent sharp daggers of pain splintering through his head. Nails dug into his skin, and that hammer hit his skull with monotonous regularity.
‘For goodness’ sake, woman’ – he hoped to hell it was a woman – he didn’t think he’d suddenly discovered a propensity for his own sex – ‘there is no need to awaken every dog and monkey for streets around. Have you never felt a …?’ He paused. What polite way was there of informing your wife – or who he assumed must be his wife, for surely he was not debauched enough to take another woman to bed on his wedding night – how your body woke up every morning? Even, it seemed, after an excess of wine and brandy. ‘A man’s body like this? If not, get used to it.’
His wife – damned if his vision wasn’t so blurry he couldn’t define her features – struggled out of the bedclothes and sat up with the sheet clutched to her like a suit of armour.
‘Of course I haven’t. Who would want to feel that?’ She shuddered. ‘As for get used to it? In your dreams, not mine.’
She gulped. Actually showed distaste. Even in his bemused state Ben was astounded. It was a first. Women usually reacted in a much more positive manner.
‘Where is my nightrail? Oh thunderheads.’ Her dismay was obvious.
He glanced to where she looked. A flimsy cotton nightrail hung over the end of the bed, out of arm’s reach without her showing her all. It looked somewhat the worse for wear. Almost in tatters. Surely she could afford better? He wondered how it had got there. Ben didn’t remember taking part in that disrobing. Not that he had any recollection of having anything to do with, well, anything.
‘How? Oh, don’t tell me. Of course I haven’t. You told me …’ She shook her head in such a vigorous manner it hurt him to watch and blew several strands of hair off her cheeks. ‘Oh, never mind. Nevertheless, explain to me one thing, pray. Why?’ She spoke baldly, in a none-too-wifely manner.
Why? Why what? The state of my body? What I said?
‘Because this is me.’ He hoped it was the correct reply. By the way she pursed her lips he was none too sure. Ben tried to expand on his statement a little more. It wasn’t easy. He looked in her direction, saw three wives, and had no idea whom to address. However, he focused on the middle one and hoped for the best. He recognised her grim-looking countenance.
Clarissa? Her of the voluptuous body, and forbidding attitude. Oh sweet lord. She whom I have lusted after ever since the first time I rubbed up? He accepted he was deep in the mire. Lady Clarissa wasn’t one to appreciate his types of demands, even though they were honest and straightforward. Whenever he’d attempted to be gallant, she’d shot him down as if she thought he jested. He didn’t, but he’d never been able to make her see that. She shied away from him like a frightened filly – or virgin? In the end he gave up and used her image in his mind when he gave himself relief. That thought strengthened his staff even more. Good lord, if he wasn’t careful the evidence of how she affected him would begin to run down its length.
‘This you what? Are a drunkard?’ She snorted. ‘Then I’ll take my leave now and retire to the country and breed dogs. Big ones, with very large teeth, who have an aversion to men who imbibe too freely.’
Give me strength. She knows we are wed and it’s too late for anything else, except accept and move on. Why can she not just accept it? What have I done that I’ve forgotten?
‘This is me when I awaken. Get used to it, madam, wife.’ Was his tone as intimidating as he hoped?
Clarissa stared at him from under a dark-reddish-brown fringe of hair as if he were a curiosity escaped from the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly.
Why does she have that frizz over her forehead? Dare I ask? Perhaps not.
‘Thankfully I won’t need to. It won’t bother me. As you gave me to believe we will not bed together.’
Perhaps this is not the time to discuss her hair.
‘Repeat that.’ Surely he hadn’t heard right?
She ground her teeth. Ben thought that was an expression, not something people actually did.
‘We. Will. Not. Bed. Together.’ She snapped each word out separately.
Definitely not the time.
Her expression dared him to contradict her. ‘Is that correct? What you told me? We will not share a bed?’
How often was she going to say that?
‘Not all the time, no,’ he said cautiously. Her hands were fisted on top of the sheet, and her knuckles shone white as she flexed and unflexed her fingers. He kept a wary eye on them. Lady Clarissa Macpherson was somewhat of an unknown quantity. She seemed biddable, but Ben was convinced he’d seen a less than placid gleam in her grey eyes on more than one occasion. He had often heard her reply to the so-called gallantry of his peers in a feisty and unladylike manner, and on one occasion told a prosy lord she preferred reading a book than listening to him. It might have gained her a reputation as a bluestocking and a termagant, but for Ben’s part he admired her for her spirit. Or he had. Now, with the Lightbobs charging though his head, he wasn’t so certain. Shouldn’t a wife be more sympathetic? Not if it’s Clarissa.
‘What do you mean, not all the time?’ Her voice rose, and he winced. ‘You said, and I quote, “I never spend the night with a woman. Never.”’
Really, loud noises and a hangover from hades didn’t go well together. Where had her father got the brandy? It had been definitely inferior. And he had said that? In essence it was the truth, but she had taken the literal sense much too far.
‘Keep your screeching to a minimum, for pity’s sake,’ he said, and hated the pleading and pitiful tone he used. ‘We’re married. I need an heir. Therefore we sleep, or not sleep, together.’ He kept his tone as level as he could, considering the band of the Coldstream Guards now played a rousing march in his head.
She raised one eyebrow. ‘Elucidate.’
‘We procreate. I spend my seed in you as many times as necessary until you’re with child.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. No sowing is necessary, my lord.’
What?
‘Pray tell me why not?’ His tone was too even for it to go unnoticed. Surely she wasn’t with child? If so, it wasn’t his, and he wasn’t going to be a cuckold.
‘You said, and I quote once more – please listen carefully – we married because you were protecting my honour. For no other reason. A chivalrous gesture that you seemed as surprised about as I was.’
Wrong, a gesture I was happy to make, although I hoped for a more positive reaction to me … us … our wedding and our … His mind faltered to a halt. Just because he wanted her, and thought his attitude might make her soften to him, didn’t mean it had.
‘You never mentioned heirs. Well, why would you? I evidently have … had,’ she corrected herself, ‘no effect on you. That result is reserved for others.’
‘Wrong,’ he muttered.
‘What? Oh, never mind,’ Clarissa said impatiently. ‘Why you decided we had to wed, I have no idea. You don’t want me, I’ll be a burden, and may be an obstacle in your … Ah, I see.’ She nodded her head. ‘Of course, ‘tis all clear now.’
Ben wished he saw. Her addlepated and meandering thoughts were too much for his alcohol-soaked brain to process.
‘You think I can be a deterrent to those who ask too much of you?’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘If you imagine for one moment that the presence – no, not the presence, as I wouldn’t be there … that the knowledge of a wife is enough of an impediment for some women, you are not as worldly wise as I suppose. I think to someone like Lady Fennister’ – she named his personal bête noir – ‘or … well, to others I could but won’t name, a wife is a reason to chase you.’
How she could see any amusement in the situation, Ben couldn’t fathom. Lady Fennister he hadn’t bedded and had no intention of doing so, but she was a burr in his side. One he needed to lose. He was uncomfortable, hungover and at sea to know how to ask one very important question. Did we consummate the marriage? Before he could enquire, she carried on with her theme.
‘Stand between you and your paramours?’ Clarissa shook her head. ‘Not a chance, my lord. You can sort your own problems.’ She folded her arms across the sheet. The action tightened it over her ample, and in his eyes perfectly proportioned, breasts. He looked at them, outlined in loving detail and then up to her face. Her expression was not welcoming. However, her lips, even pursed, were luscious and rosy, and even in his hungover state Ben wondered what they would feel like beneath his. They reminded him of someone … or rather of another pair of equally luscious lips. He couldn’t remember who they belonged to.
‘What are you staring at?’
Lord she’s mouthy. I know a way to stop that, if I have half a chance.
‘Just as, given the opportunity I would have sorted mine,’ Clarissa continued.
He was confused for a moment, until he realised she was still talking about the reason for their marriage. How women could carry a conversation with so many threads, swap between them and expect a man to follow and comment was beyond him in any state, not solely when his head was less than clear.
‘I could have used my knee very effectively to deter that idiot. Ferdy Pendragon has as much sense as my little finger,’ Clarissa said. ‘You, however, had to be a man.’
She invested the word with so much scorn that he blinked. Even that little action made his eyes hurt. Were they all that bad?
That was a fine way to thank me for my chivalry. So did we? How could you ask a question like that politely, and without admitting you had no idea of what had happened after your wife took your sword and stuck it in the cake with a muttered ‘if only it were you’?’
‘Even so, madam wife, I am a man. Some things are non-negotiable.’ He strove for an emphatic tone and was aware he fell well short of that specific mark. His voice sounded more like that of a constipated swan. ‘My heir is one of them. Who knows how long it will be before you’re with child.’ There, that was suitably ambiguous.
‘After last night?’ She shrugged and held her hands out in a ‘who knows’ gesture.
The action made the sheet slip until Ben imagined he could see the dusky outline of one rosy nipple. In her attempt at insouciance, it seemed Clarissa hadn’t realised. He had no intention of telling her.
‘Aeons I would think,’ Clarissa said. ‘Not that I know much about the mysteries of what is alleged to go on in the marital bed.’ And nor do I want to, her tone intimated. ‘But in ours it seems to be thus. To order me to said bed like I am an unruly child, when surely the boot is on the other foot. To leave me alone, wondering what next for hours. Then, lo and behold, you appear, stand at the door blinking myopically and squinting towards me, and utter the inane words, “Ah ha, tis you.” I wonder, who else were you expecting? No, on second thoughts do not answer that. I have no wish to know.’
Ben blinked. He had neither opened his mouth nor uttered a word. It seemed Clarissa hadn’t finished.
‘Next, you proceed to fall down across the bed, fling your arm in my general direction, miss me by several inches, grab hold of my nightrail and rip it to shreds.’
That accounted for the state of the garment, then.
‘After which you mutter some epithet or other, pinion me to the mattress by dint of passing out across my legs and proceed to snore. All night. At some point you roll to one side and use me as a pillow until you wake up with a log between your legs, and expect me to know what to do with it. I have an idea, but I also have an assumption it won’t be beneficial to your health. According to you, as we left the wedding feast, knives, swords and something you call cocks don’t mix. That is strange because I thought poultry and sharp edges work very well? One slice and the bird is ready. I’ve never subscribed to holding it in my bare hands and eating it. So messy.’
Ben choked back a laugh. Was she truly that naïve? The expression on her face said yes, the look in her eyes said no. He recognised his wife had hidden depths and was not about to divulge them.
Damn, now I want to know more. The original reason for their marriage, to whit, to save her from shame, and do nothing more than begat an heir, went out of the window. If, he acknowledged to himself, it had even been there in the first place. Lady Clarissa Macpherson had intrigued him for years. Ever since, as a schoolgirl with flyaway hair and that fuzzy fringe, she’d shied away from him as if he had the plague. Come to think of it, her attitude towards him hadn’t changed much.
The fringe. Where else had he seen one just like it? Hopefully one day he’d remember. Ben decided it was important. Not only that – if there were hidden depths to his wife, it was surely up to him to uncover them?
‘Clary, in all seriousness, I’m sorry. I overimbibed,’ he said seriously. ‘It’s to my shame I recollect very little of our wedding night.’ Now came the sticky question. ‘Did we not consummate our marriage?’
She slid out of the bed and took the sheet with her. One slim ankle showed briefly as she twisted the sheet round her like a toga inscribed on the friezes he’d seen in Egypt. He looked down at the tent in the remainder of the covers and grinned. Whatever she thought, his log was here to stay, until her body or his hands decreed otherwise. Sadly he thought it would be his hands.
‘Sir, my name is Clarissa, and I’m thankful to say we did not.’ She gave him a glare that would have felled a lesser man – and splintered his log into kindling – curtseyed, stumbled on the edge of the fine linen shrouding her, and righted herself. ‘Thunderheads.’ She swept out and into the bathing chamber like a galleon in full sail.
It was a pity she spoiled her exit by tripping again on the cloth and staggering into the other room.
Ben fell back on the pillows and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. Life was looking up.
****
Clarissa, Lady Bennett, née Lady Clarissa Macpherson, sat on the lid of the commode and held her head in her hands. Life was cruel. She kicked the linen sheet with her toes and cursed as once again it clung on as if its – and her own – life depended on it. Maybe it did. What on earth had she landed herself in? And why goad him? Retribution, and an imp of mischief that wanted to pay him back for the worry he’d put her through? More than likely. Plus, if she were honest, she had looked forward to her wedding night with excitement as well as trepidation, and felt let down. She’d wondered if she was to taste his kisses now as a young woman, not a girl.
Now she knew. No, she was not.
Clarissa sighed as she used the commode and then washed in the lukewarm water that had been left on the washstand, heaven knows when. What a mess.
It had been hours before she’d fallen asleep the night before. Her nerves had been as tight as the strings of a violin, and she’d gathered all her courage to decide to face the perils and pitfalls of the unknown facets of the marriage night. Surely he would be gentle? Explain everything and make her a woman in the full sense of the word, as considerately and kindly as could be? As time ticked by, Clarissa had become more and more wound up. When the bedroom door opened and he had made his way with exaggerated care across the bedchamber floor, she had shivered, although whether in fear or excitement she didn’t examine. Then he’d pulled his banyan off and stared at her owlishly.
She’d stared back. His naked body shone in the soft candlelight, and reminded her of the sculpture of a Greek god she’d seen. Every angle, plane and – she gulped at the thought – his masculinity were highlighted in perfect detail. Her mouth went dry. The sculpture had been anatomically correct, something she had seriously doubted, even after she had equated that hard rod he’d pressed against her all those years ago with that part of the drawing that angled out proudly from the top of his legs. Until that moment she had still distrusted those pamphlets stowed safely in the secret drawer of her escritoire. Now, however …
Her pulse jumped and her mouth was dry. Was this it?
‘Hello? What have I here?’ The words were slurred and ran into each other.
Before she had a chance to reply, he’d hiccoughed, pitched forward, grabbed her nightrail, and torn it on his downward slide. Then he’d collapsed into a semi-drunken stupor onto the bed and proceeded to snore and snort for the hours of darkness.
She’d wriggled out of the remains of her nightwear, and put it to one side. Sitting on rough edges and torn threads was less than comfortable. Clarissa pondered dark thoughts of retribution. That nightrail was – or had been – beautiful, and even if it was intended, so her godmama said, to be taken off, she was sure Godmama hadn’t meant quite in the manner it had happened.
The watch had called six o’clock before she fell into an uneasy sleep. It hadn’t been many hours later before she was wakened by his groping arm and his … his … She shuddered. His thing. If she hadn’t been quite so worried what he intended, she could have sniggered over the list of names suggested for it. Staff, rod, cock … When her hand touched it, it wriggled, and reared up like an excited horse. Almost as if it had a mind of its own. It was one thing admiring it from afar, but close at hand – and hand was the operative word – it was something else.
Sniggering over caricatures and lithographs of a naked man and his appendages was not the same as seeing and feeling them unexpectedly. Last evening she’d been ready to become his wife and to touch and play as he directed. Now, in the cold light of day, and after his behaviour of the night before, she was less enthusiastic.
Clarissa sighed and hunted for her hairbrush. Really, this marriage business was a nuisance. Her maid had been told to leave them until she was called, as had Ben’s valet. So now Clarissa had to hook herself into her dress and try to do something with mahogany-coloured corkscrew curls that had a mind of their own. And the dratted fringe. Whatever she did it looked like a twig brush. It wouldn’t grow out tidily, and she had learned to live with it. However, she’d seen the looks gentlemen had given it, and Ben had been no different. Astonished and amused summed their expressions up perfectly. After a cursory tug and brush she ignored it. It would do as it preferred whatever she did. Eventually, she tied her hair back in a loose chignon, and pulled on a plain day gown with laces down the front. With a glance and a grimace in the mirror, she left the room and returned to the bedchamber. Thence to stop suddenly. Ben was sprawled across the bed on his back, naked as the day he was born. He’d kicked the covers down to his ankles and not one part of his front was hidden from view.
Oh, what a view.
Clarissa gulped and stared at the thick staff that stood proudly up from his body, and waved hello. Now she was able to study it carefully, and unobserved, she was both fascinated and, in a strange way, repelled. That was supposed to fit into her? Oh, it had felt large when she’d grasped it earlier, but not that size, and in the moonlight she had decided her vision emphasised the size rather than diminished it. Now she realised her mistake. There was no chance that could be accommodated inside a woman. Someone surely had their facts wrong?
‘Do you like what you see?’ Her husband was awake and watching her through hooded eyes. ‘Shall I show you more?’
Her hands went to her warm cheeks. Now was a time she could have done with a fan, and not for coy or flirtatious purposes either. His eyes, although still cloudy, had a look in them, which her governess would have called devilry, and Clarissa decided was studied wickedness. If she didn’t stand up to him now, she never would.
‘Why?’ She feigned nonchalance, and thought she may well have succeeded. ‘You have shown me nothing so far to make me wish to see more.’
His eyes cleared and dark lights of fire flashed. Then his mouth firmed in a straight line. ‘Really? I must be slacking.’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps fine wines and brandy have that effect on you, my lord. Make you slack. You sampled enough to discover whether my words are true or not.’ Clarissa ignored his snort of outrage and his muttered oath and swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She wanted no more than to reach for the glass of water next to the bed. However, she knew enough about men to know Ben would see it as a sign of weakness, and pounce on it like a cat with a mouse.
To give herself time, and to rid the room of the noxious smell of stale alcohol, Clarissa walked over to the windows, pulled back the curtains, and pushed up the sash, thence to let warm, fresh air and sunshine fill the room. It was lucky this room overlooked a pleasant and tidy garden, filled with scented flowers and not the road, where the aromas would certainly not be fresh and sweet.
Ben groaned. ‘Woman, you are trying to kill me.’
‘Fresh air never killed anyone, my lord. And if you persist in smelling like a cast-off from a tavern, you’ll need the benefits. To put it bluntly, you stink worse than any privy.’ She dusted her hands together and after a brief, very brief glance down his body, stared at his face. Her words seemed to have little effect on his body. Clarissa willed herself not to blush.
‘I do, do I? My poor wife. How shall we remedy that?’ Ben jumped off the bed and stalked stiff-legged towards her.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed his gait made his cock wave about as if in welcome to her.
‘Perhaps you could bathe me and show me what’s needed?’ His tone was challenging.
Clarissa dug her nails into her hands. He would not trifle with her, and she would not rise to his bait. ‘Perhaps?’ She shrugged insouciantly. ‘But why should I bother? You have nothing to interest me, and on past showing, I have nothing that interests you. Why waste time? You drink yourself into oblivion, and I … I? I will …’ She ran out of words as he continued to move closer until he stopped a few inches in front of her. One more step and his body would touch hers.
‘You will?’ he asked silkily.
‘Go and have breakfast.’
Damn him.
She left the room at a most indecorous speed. His mocking laughter followed her as she headed down the stairs. Why on earth had she acted in that way? Oh yes, he’d annoyed her, and in truth intrigued her. Because if what she’d read happened, did happen, well …
Hot chocolate and a light breakfast should calm her, surely? And get rid of the strange tingles and shudders that had run through her when she’d stared at her husband. First, though, she needed to walk. Clarissa turned away from her original destination, and made her way along a narrow corridor to where a door led into the larger than average town garden. At least Bennett House had one. So many great town houses didn’t enjoy such a thing. The screech of the bolt which secured the door, as she withdrew it from its casing, made her think few people ever ventured into this outdoor space, even though it was there. She made a mental note to ask Ben to have the lock and bolt oiled, and inform the servants that the garden was for everyone. After all, how often would it be used otherwise?
The thoughts brought her up short. A wifely task? What was she thinking? She had no desire to act as a wife – complaisant or otherwise – hated town and had no intention of spending a minute longer in the metropolis than she had to. The niggly thought that perhaps she would have no say in the matter, she ignored. As she did the one that sneakily told her she’d love to be his wife … his proper, no-holds-barred, forsaking-all-others – for both of them – wife. Clarissa wrenched open the door and walked out into the fresh air.
The scents that wafted up into the bedroom didn’t do the garden justice. Or maybe they had no chance against stale brandy?
Why had she reacted to Ben in such a way? It was guaranteed to put his back up – and it seemed his staff. She giggled, her heart suddenly lighter. She could neither change her way of thinking than a leopard could change its spots. To be outspoken and forward-thinking was ingrained in her. Ever since her mama died, her papa had tried his best to be both parents to her. But as he had often admitted, the workings of a woman’s mind remained a mystery to him, as they did to most men. She loved him dearly, and was more than happy with the strength and independence he’d helped her gain. However, Clarissa would be the first person to admit that her attitude didn’t go down well with most of the ton. It had never bothered her before; in fact she had actively cultivated their view of her. Until Ben had shown his chivalrous side, that is, and she had started to wish he saw her as more than an encumbrance. She still hadn’t decided why he had come to her aid, although to be seen stroking her ankle could well have become the scandal of the decade.
Life was so complicated. Clarissa sighed and began to walk.
The garden was immaculate, but even so, she had the impression it wasn’t loved. No lady of the house came and picked the flowers or walked the lawns. No guests spilled out of the dining room or the ballroom to walk the terrace and enjoy the soft evening air. It was a pity, and Clarissa knew, even though there was now a mistress of the house, nothing would change. The thought depressed her in some strange way, and she retraced her steps inside, and thence to make her way to the breakfast room.
The footman looked at her strangely as she walked in alone, and at such an early hour, but he merely bowed.
‘My lady.’
Clarissa bit her lip. Although she’d been a Lady all her life there were ladies and there were ladies. As the married Lady Bennett she was of a higher echelon than the unmarried Lady Clarissa Macpherson. She’d have to find that hat and learn how to wear it. In her father’s house, once her rakish, but strangely staid, pompous and proper with regard to her, elder brother had moved out, she and her father had lived life very informally.
Tarnation, I can only be what I am. Stuffiness and pomposity didn’t sit well with Clarissa’s true nature. She smiled at the young footman. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
‘C … can I get you some breakfast, my lady?’ His voice squeaked and he blushed the colour of the deep red cushions on the chairs.
‘Just chocolate and a light meal, please.’ She ignored his embarrassment. He was new and no doubt scared. ‘Eggs, perhaps?’ What was his name? ‘Timothy.’ She remembered at the last minute and was glad she’d done so when his face lit up. ‘Of course, my lady.’
Nothing was said about Ben, and Clarissa chose not to mention him. Her mother had died when Clarissa was in leading reins, and she and her father always breakfasted together. Clarissa had no idea if that was the norm or not, but felt it best not to comment unless she was asked a direct question.
She waited until the man left the room, and stared at the twelve-foot-long table. If Ben did appear and they sat at either end, they would need to communicate by signs – did he know semaphore? – or a written note. For a family dining table it was ridiculous. How stupid did Ben feel when he ate alone?
As if on cue the man himself appeared. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and his normally immaculate hair appeared to have been in a fight with a hedge and lost. The cravat tied around his neck was more Belcher than Bennett, and all in all he looked, well, disreputable. She risked a quick peep downwards, but nothing hard spoiled the neat fit of his pantaloons. Clarissa wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed.
He took one swift glance at her and sighed. ‘How many apologies do I owe you?’
She shrugged. He looked like a little boy who had been caught red-handed tormenting the chickens, or trying to ride the family sow, and it was hard to keep a straight face. For the first time, Clarissa had an idea life was not going to be as straightforward as she hoped. ‘If you need to ask, then the answer is, of course, none.’
‘I was afraid of that. Several then.’ He essayed a grin. She didn’t respond and he rubbed his chin with one hand. ‘But as at this moment I have no recollections of my misdemeanours, I’ll save the specifics until I do. Until that time, please consider them given.’
‘Of course, my lord,’ Clarissa said levelly. ‘Shall I ring for the footman?’
He shook his head and winced. ‘Argh, of all the idiotic, stupid … Sorry, no need. I’ll sit and die quietly until one appears.’
It was difficult not to let her lips twitch at the air of pathos that surrounded him, but she hardened her heart. Everything he suffered was self-inflicted. If she wasn’t careful he’d run rings around her, and Clarissa was honest enough to know that could only end in heartache. ‘As you wish.’
‘You’re all heart, my dear.’
She chose not to answer as the soft swish of a door opening caught her attention. A few seconds later a plate of eggs and slices of crusty bread were set in front of her, and a chocolate pot and cup placed to one side. She thanked the footman who bowed and turned to Ben.
‘My lord?’
‘I’ll have what my wife is having,’ he said.
The footman’s eyes widened. ‘Chocolate, my lord?’
Ben blanched and Clarissa hid her face with her napkin as he then turned green and got up so abruptly his chair crashed down behind him. He left the room in a hurry.
Clarissa turned to the footman. ‘I think he means the eggs, Timothy.’
Chapter Three (#u348dba5c-fc91-5e1e-b3bd-2527c409ab46)
After parting company with all of the previous day’s food and drink, and probably that of the week before as well, Ben dunked his head under the pump in the tiny backyard and spluttered as his nose and ears filled with the liquid.
He pulled his head up much too sharply for someone suffering the afflictions he did, and groped for the towel he’d plucked from the washing line on his mad dash to get rid of the contents of his stomach.
‘Here.’ The towel was placed in his hands, and he lifted the coarse material to his cheeks.
Damnation and hellfire, I know that voice.
He scrubbed his face, dropped the cloth, narrowly missed the water trough and looked up into the eyes of his wife.
‘Thank you,’ he said stiffly. Her amused expression helped not one iota to reduce his embarrassment. ‘My apologies you have to see me like this.’
‘Really?’ One elegant eyebrow lifted almost to her hairline. The wind flirted with her curls, and the hem of her skirt drifted back and forth over the dusty ground. As ever her fringe was all over the place. She looked young, and now, sadly, disgusted.
How on earth can she do that and invest it with all the scorn and disbelief she obviously has? Which, he acknowledged, he deserved.
‘I had thought it was due to your having to rest your eyes on me; you decided that to drink yourself into oblivion was a better option.’ Clarissa surveyed him steadily, and Ben was sure his face was the colour of the roses she’d carried in her bouquet the day before. How on earth could she make him feel like a scrubby schoolboy so easily?
‘I’m sorry I gave you that impression.’ Try as he might he couldn’t lift his voice. It was hard not to scuff his boots in the dirt and kick a stone. However, in the state he was in he’d probably break a window or hit his wife on the head if he did.
‘Are you? If you say so.’
His hackles rose as she dismissed his apology so cavalierly. Really his wife needed lessons in manners. And I don’t? He dismissed the thought. It was too close to the truth to be contemplated at a silly hour.
‘I’ve instructed Timothy to take your eggs away and bring you a jug of ale, and barbaric though it sounds to me, red meat. According to Renwick, your major-domo, it’s the best cure for an …’ She chuckled and he caught a glimpse of a person he’d never met before. Bright eyes, young and amused. No adoration, no disgust, just an openness he loved. ‘An affliction such as yours.’
‘Thank you,’ he said gratefully. ‘Believe me, it works.’
‘Then perhaps you should return to your breakfast.’
Somehow he was sure it was not a suggestion. Had his wife got hitherto unrevealed depths? After all, what did he know of her? A fresh-faced schoolgirl who went red whenever he saw her, a young deb who held no interest for him, and now an unwilling bride, even if he had long held a desire to get to know her better. Who does she remind me of? That question had popped in and out of his mind over several years. He never discovered the answer.
Ben held his arm out to her.
She shook her head. ‘Unlike you, I have no desire to greet a red and rare steak over the breakfast table. I thought I might check your library to see if it negates a visit to Hookham’s.’
Hookham’s? The circulating library. Why on earth does a bride on her honeymoon need to visit there? His bewilderment must have been obvious, because his bride smiled, and elaborated.
‘To choose some reading matter. I have to have something to pass the time, and embroidery and tapestry don’t hold my attention for as long as a good book.’
‘We have a library next door if you wish to labour under the misapprehension you will need something other than your husband to occupy your time.’ Lord, he sounded pompous.
She curtseyed and, without bothering to give him a reply, turned on her heels, gave him a tantalising glimpse of her ankles once more – and disappeared through the door and in the direction of the library.
Ben made his way slowly into the breakfast room. He and the lady were long overdue a talk about what was required of a new wife, a honeymoon, and a marriage. The need to find a pastime, other than pandering to his every whim, wasn’t high on the agenda.
Why on earth had he thought that once they were wed all would be fine and straightforward? With Clarissa of all people. He might have admired her since she emerged from her schooling and took her place in the ton, but he suffered no illusions about her and her feistiness. When he saw Ferdy Pendragon attack her he’d seen red and all his chivalrous qualities had come to the fore. She deserved better. Yes, things had got somewhat out of hand, and his declaration had been as much of a surprise to him as it was to her. However, he hadn’t been displeased. It was time he wed, and Clarissa was someone he liked. He ignored the tiny voice in his battered head that scoffed and niggled … only like? He should have known it wasn’t going to be plain sailing.
He began to plot. Hookham’s indeed. If she needed to read, then she could read him.
****
Clarissa wandered around the library like a child in William Hamley’s Noah’s Ark toy shop. When she was a little girl, her godmother had taken her to the shop in High Holborn and allowed her to pick two toys. She’d chosen a whip and top, and an elegant rag doll, which her half-French godmother had christened Marguerite. The whip and top were buried deep in one of the outbuildings at her father’s country home, but Marguerite was in her portmanteau and would eventually sit on her bed.
When he chooses to tell me where it is. The night before she’d been ushered into a bedchamber, and left to await his arrival. Some arrival that had been. She had ached from the number of times her hand had been shaken or she’d curtseyed, and was tired and more than a little apprehensive about the coming hours. And she knew fine well only the upper servants had greeted them. The rest of the household would be made known to her on the return from their honeymoon. She had no idea if that was the norm or not but she was pleased it had been so. There had been enough new things and people to assimilate as it was.
Clarissa cast her mind over the previous night’s activities and remembered her first sight of a naked man. Now, she admitted, it was a sight well worth seeing even if previously she hadn’t been so sure.
Her less than amorous bridegroom had fallen onto the mattress and stayed where he landed for the rest of the night. So much for being introduced to the pleasure of the marital bed. She shook her head. If that was the delight awaiting her, he could keep it. It was best not to think of it. Instead she delved into the delights of a well-stocked library, with a plethora of books to choose from. If, as it seemed, reading did not feature on His Lordship’s list of pastimes, someone had thought it worthwhile creating such a perfect room. She decided there and then that during any visit to the capital she would use the library as her own private retreat. Ben could find somewhere else to drink his brandy and bemoan his fate.
Clarissa was so engrossed in deciding whether to reread Miss Austen’s Northanger Abbey or discover the delights of Mrs Davenport’s The Hypocrite that when a strong hand descended onto her shoulder and gripped it she screamed as if a banshee had approached. She spun around and dropped both books. Straight onto a pair of bare feet.
The epithet that scorched her ears made Clarissa certain the hands belonged to a human, and hadn’t acted independently. No banshee would have such a wide and varied cuss word vocabulary, surely?
‘Woman, do you want to unman me?’ She looked into the anguished face of her husband, who actually hopped from one foot to another. What a play actor.
‘Highly unlikely unless your manhood is in your feet?’ She couldn’t help it, she let her glance slide over his crotch – did it always twitch when someone glanced at it? – before she looked at his allegedly abused digits.
‘What a performance over a little book on your toes. Mr Kean would be proud of it. The library today, Drury Lane tomorrow?’ Clarissa bent down and picked the volumes up. His soft whistle made her realise the actions stretched her gown tight over her rear. She itched to drop the books once more, with force and intention this time. And make them graze the stiffly outlined part of his body that stretched his pantaloons to the limit of their knit. Why on earth was he barefoot anyway? He’d had boots on earlier. What was wrong with house shoes like any sensible person?
She bit her lip to stop the ready retort that sprang to mind. Really, this bite-your-tongue stuff was a load of nonsense. He didn’t hold back, so why should she?
‘I thought you wished to talk, not insult me,’ Clarissa said as she put the books on the table and dusted her hands. It wouldn’t augur well to have a shouting match with her husband on the first full day of married life. ‘Your carpet needs a good clean.’
He bowed. ‘Tell your servants, my dear.’
My servants? Oh lord, I’m the lady of the house now.
She curtseyed in the same mocking way he had saluted her. ‘As you say. Did you want me for anything, my lord?’
He chuckled.
Clarissa clenched her fists as the ready colour she was cursed with heated her skin. ‘In your dreams, my lord. If … when,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘I give myself to a man it will be one who has proved himself to be worthy.’
He whistled long and loud. ‘Now did I say anything about giving yourself, my dear?’ His tone was all innocence. ‘I trust you’ve found a tome to amuse you during those few moments I cannot? For we leave for my hunting lodge within the hour.’
‘Why?’ Not that she was averse to leaving for the countryside. Clarissa was never at ease in the metropolis, and much preferred the slower pace of life in the shires. But with Ben? Alone? When he could … well, whatever. She turned her thoughts into a cough.
‘Why? Honestly?’ Gone was the hungover bridegroom, to be replaced by the man she had secretly admired from afar. ‘Clarissa, whatever the circumstances, we’re married, and need to gain a modicum of knowledge and understanding of each other. We need to learn to at least be in each other’s vicinity without sniping. For that, I rather think we need privacy. Here we are too likely to be interrupted, by all and sundry.’
Clarissa understood the truth in that. Even in the short time she’d spent in the library, the silence of the house had been disturbed by the loud peal of the doorbell several times. More than once there had been strident voices, one of which she was convinced was female, and then a definite slam of a door. It was all well and good knowing she’d upset several ladies upon her engagement; not so good to believe more than one didn’t see a wife as an impediment to anything. Clarissa might not want to be married, or a wife, but neither was she prepared to step back and let any other woman monopolise her husband. The operative words were, she thought, her husband. Hers. Perhaps he was right.
‘Then I’ll make sure I have everything I need. Does my maid know?’
‘She knows. She has packed. She will not accompany us.’
Clarissa blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No maid, no valet,’ Ben said. ‘I will play ladies maid.’
She laughed. ‘And I valet?’
‘Oh, my dear, I do hope so.’ He almost purred the words.
I asked for that. She really was going to have to think before she opened her mouth and put her foot in it.
This was Lord Theodore Bennett at his predatory best. She didn’t know whether to be amused, fascinated, or run a mile. His words and the hot look he directed at her set off those new, exciting tingles in her body once more. The man was a danger to her equilibrium. She picked the two books up from the desk and held them in front of her bosom like a shield. Why, when she was aroused, were her nipples so hard and itchy and wanting to poke through her chemise? Sadly it wasn’t something she could ask Ben. It was at times like this she missed her mama, or having someone around to ask. Oh, her godmama would tell her all she needed to know, but that, now she was wed, somehow seemed a betrayal of her marriage vows. Because surely it was one of those secrets between a man and wife? Clarissa swallowed.
‘Then I will collect my cloak and meet you in the hallway at the appropriate time.’
It was the best exit line she could manage. His chuckle followed her up the stairs to her room.
****
It was strange how someone you’d seen from afar – or that was how it seemed – never passed more than five minutes with, and never thought would look at you in any way other than through you, could be such an interesting companion. If only it was more. More what, Clarissa wasn’t prepared to imagine.
Whether Ben had given himself a stern talking to, or was simply out of his self-induced hangover and prepared to make the best of a bad job, Clarissa had no idea. However, during the long drive north to his hunting lodge in Rutlandshire, he set himself out to be the perfect host. He chatted about the countryside, the gossip circulating the ton, which didn’t involve them, and the hats worn by the tabbies at their wedding. He hid his ever-increasing yawns behind his hands, and never once crossed the line into impropriety. Eventually Clarissa held her hand up.
‘My lord, enough. I don’t need entertaining. You look as if a sleep would be beneficial. How long until we change horses?’
He glanced out of the window. Evidently he knew the route well. ‘About an hour, why?’
‘I think you should nap. You may have slept last night, but I’ll wager it wasn’t restful.’ The same went for her, but Clarissa didn’t think she’d be able to relax until she was in her own room, and her own bed. Alone. Heavens, she might sleep with her mouth open, or snore as loud as him. She might not want his advances – liar liar, may your tongue not fall out – but nor did she want his pity or, worse, his loathing. Now she wanted his silence so she could collect her thoughts.
He stared at her for long seconds. It was like being back at Miss Nunnery’s school for young ladies, where Clarissa had been thought of as a generally biddable young lady, albeit with a stubborn streak. How the two coexisted she had no idea, but evidently that was her make-up.
Finally, just as she was ready to blurt out and own up to whatever alleged misdemeanour was hers, Ben yawned once more and nodded.
‘Thank you. I admit, I am beginning to flag.’ He stretched his long, pantaloon-clad legs out across the coach and put one ankle over the other. Then, with a deep sigh, he folded his hands over his chest and closed his eyes. As far as Clarissa could tell he was asleep within seconds. If only she could be so lucky.
She averted her eyes from the interesting bulge, which sat snugly across the front of his torso. It reminded her of a cucumber she’d seen in her father’s greenhouse at their country estate. That thought made her snigger. A cucumber, indeed. In reality the bulge could, she guessed, be much more interesting. Cucumbers had never featured highly on her enjoyment list. They tasted bland at best. Clarissa forced herself to glance away and looked out of the window, at streams and trees and cattle in the fields. At this time of the year, the Great North Road out of the city was busy, and the first hour had seen them run the gauntlet of pie sellers, post boys, stagecoaches and phaetons. Now, several hours into their journey, the traffic had dwindled to a few carts, one or two solo riders, and once, the mail coach going south. Their coachman had pulled over when the yard of tin was heard, and Clarissa had marvelled at the speed at which the mail passed them. No wonder people said you needed to hold on to your hats if you travelled by post.
A particularly bumpy stretch of road made her grab on to the strap. The heavy rain of recent weeks had washed much of the surface away. That, followed by several days of sunshine, had turned the road into ruts of hardened mud. The gossip was that this stretch of road was soon to be attended to. Soon couldn’t come fast enough.
She stared doubtfully at her husband. He lay loose-limbed in a semi-upright position and swayed from side to side in time with each rolling movement of the vehicle. If they weren’t careful, he’d end up on the floor. Clarissa wasn’t sure what to do for the best. Leave him to the vagaries of the road, or try to wedge him in the corner?
One lurch, more vicious than those before, took the decision out of her hands. Ben swayed and slid across the seat in her direction. His hands found her waist and his head her lap. With a self-satisfied murmur he hooked one hand into the material covering her breasts, and settled himself, using her as a pillow.
Clarissa wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. She looked down onto the dark curls, and at his face, which looked so boyish in sleep, and her heart melted. How long had she had this tendresse for him?
Since forever it seemed, and he was oblivious.
He was her husband, so she supposed she’d better accept what crumbs she had and make the best of it. After all, knowing Ben, it wouldn’t be long before he tired of her, the country, and the bucolic life, and hightailed it back to London. The thought didn’t please her. She might have railed against the marriage, but her papa had said exactly what she herself thought. If she had to marry, then she could do a lot worse that marry Ben. Except … She sighed. She suspected what she wanted from marriage and what Ben did were poles apart. Such as him wanting to live mostly in London. That was her idea of hell. It was a situation she would need to consider carefully, weighing up all the eventualities, if she declined to accompany him.
With that thought uppermost, she wedged herself securely on the seat, held him close, and closed her eyes to think about the strange last few months.
A chuckle and warm breath blowing over her neck and cheek woke her. Something was tickling her ear.
Spiders. She struggled to release her limbs, which seemed tangled in the arachnid’s web.
‘Clary, wake up. We’re at the Swan. Come on now.’ The spider pinched her ear. It stung.
Spiders don’t pinch, they bite. They don’t talk and they would not call me Clary. She opened her eyes to look straight into the concerned ones of Ben. The normally bright grey irises were dark with what looked like desire? Surely not? It had to be mere concern over her agitation.
‘Whaa?’
‘You started to struggle and mutter about being caught.’ He winked. ‘My head was removed from the most comfortable pillow ever in no uncertain manner and you batted at me as if I were the devil incarnate.’
‘Spiders are the devil incarnate. I must have been dreaming. Spiders on a log and … oh.’ She remembered just what the log in question had been. But that was a dream, surely?
‘Sometimes in that dreamlike state between wakefulness and sleep we do things we otherwise might not,’ Ben said and laughed. ‘As I used you for my pillow. And you …’ He raised one eyebrow, and tilted his head to one side in a gesture of query.
‘And I let you,’ Clarissa said. She was sure he wasn’t alluding to that, but to where she had an uncomfortable idea her hand had slipped. ‘Ah.’ She’d never been more thankful to see a carriage door open and a liveried servant waiting to help her descend onto the inn’s forecourt.
‘Ah? Ah, you mean saved by the servant. I will give you that this time.’ Ben followed her out of the vehicle, and took her arm. ‘Let’s eat.’
Damn him. Does he always have to have the last word?
****
Ben watched the manner in which his wife took such dainty mouthfuls of food, and to his chagrin imagined her lips and teeth around him. It was enough for him to need to adjust himself underneath his clothing. Why did it happen to him? Only once in his life had he acted with chivalry, and without any thought to what the consequences could be, and the result was he was leg-shackled. To someone who insisted she had no interest in him. Ben thought there was truly no justice. When he had come across Pendragon and Clarissa, his blood had boiled. How dare the man touch her? Deep in the depths of his mind, he was, he admitted, ashamed that his first thought had been ‘How dare he touch her when I dare not?’, followed by chivalry, with no thought of how perhaps a true rake would have bowed and left them to it.
Or would one? Because surely the first rule of a rake was ‘willing women only’. Whatever, Ben was uneasily aware that his first ever chivalrous gesture hadn’t quite turned out the way he thought. It irritated him. He’d given up his way of life, let himself be seen as a cad who had, as many thought, reluctantly saved the lady’s reputation. Although he’d wager no one thought he’d completely change his ways as he intended.
If my lady lets me. My lady? Not a hope at the moment. Nevertheless, he intended to do what he could to alter that state of affairs.
Meanwhile, as he watched the totally innocent, but wholly erotic way she ate her food, Ben accepted he was smitten. It did not sit comfortably. Married men did not become enamoured of their wives. They did their duty, and went their own way.
Why?
Meanwhile, Clarissa finished her repast, and wiped her lips with her napkin. Ben swallowed. His mouth was dry and his stomach hollow. Even that little thing had his body on high alert.
A clatter, a crash and the sound of people running across the cobbles outside brought his attention away from his wife. He got to his feet and strode to the window. Outside the road was clear. A couple of urchins ran along the dusty verge towards where the commotion seemed to come from. The inn’s yard.
‘What?’ Clarissa had come up behind him, and stood on tiptoe to try and see past his body. ‘What’s happened?’ Her soft hand as she held on to his shoulder to steady herself burned through his coat and imprinted its shape on his skin. A delicate scent teased his nostrils, and Ben realised it was that elusive something he’d been chasing ever since he woke up.
‘What is your perfume?’ he asked abruptly, and could have kicked himself. He must remember this was his wife not some demi-monde who had no need of fine words.
Luckily, he thought, Clarissa seemed not to notice his tone, or she chose to ignore it. ‘Perfume? I don’t have any … oh, you mean my soap? ’Tis made by Mr Pears. It reminds me of my garden at my papa’s house. It’s one thing that makes my stay in the capital semi-acceptable. Oh, I meant to say, how lovely the garden at your town house is. You must let the staff know they can use it.’
Ben was amazed. Here they were, speaking together like sensible, non-antagonistic people and having a proper conversation. He made a note to find out more about a soap that smelt of sunlight and long summer evenings in the garden. He recollected the rest of her statement.
‘All the gardens were my mama’s favourites when she was alive.’ Stupid. After all, how could they be if she were dead? ‘She would have said exactly the same with regard to the staff. I’ll make a note to let them know.’ He experienced the usual sharp pang of loss that hit him whenever he thought of his long-gone mama. She had passed when he was at Eton, and Ben still experienced the loss, as if it were the day before. ‘I feel they may be neglected somewhat. I’m sure she – I – would be happy for your input.’
Her sigh stirred the hairs on his neck.
‘You don’t like the idea?’ He’d thought she’d be pleased. Truly the way a woman’s mind worked could be a mystery. For one fleeting moment Ben had a vision of his last mistress. Her mind worked in one way only – calculating what was in it for her. He had parted company with the fair lady when her demands began to be inappropriate. Right from the start he’d told her it was a temporary liaison and, whatever she’d thought, he’d had no intention of altering the status quo. And now he was married? Ben had an uneasy feeling life might not be the same, even though he thought he and his wife had come to an understanding.
‘The gardens?’ he prompted Clarissa when it seemed she wasn’t going to answer.
‘Oh yes, the gardens. Perhaps.’ Her offhand, indifferent tone of voice irritated him. The knock on the door came as a welcome relief. Ben was out of his depth, and he didn’t like the sensation.
He liked the news even less.
‘What do you mean, some idiot’s driven into my coach?’ He roared the words, and blinked rapidly, as if the gesture would change the declaration uttered by the harried footman in front of him. ‘How the hades did you let that happen?’
Clarissa placed her hand on Ben’s arm. How he stopped himself from shaking it off, he had no idea. He glanced at her impatiently. She stood her ground and returned his perusal.
‘My lord, have you never heard the expression do not shoot the messenger? Scraptoft here is only relaying what’s happened. He is neither responsible for it, nor able to alter the chain of events. He’s told you about the accident, and you need to go and see for yourself what’s to be done.’
The footman flashed a grateful glance in her direction and Ben gritted his teeth. She was right, of course, but he didn’t like to be reminded of it in such a fashion.
‘Of course, my dear, you are, as ever, correct.’ He cursed the defensive tone.
‘I accept your apologies and acknowledgement, my lord.’ The words and intonation were dulcet, the look in her eyes not so. ‘I will arrange for our food to be delayed until your return.’
Ben nodded curtly. ‘Thank you. My apologies, Scraptoft. It is, of course, not your doing. Forgive me – I was somewhat perturbed.’ He gestured to the man to precede him, and turned back to his wife once the other man had left the room.
‘I trust you can entertain yourself while I’m away?’
Her eyes filled with mischief, and he could have sworn she choked back a laugh.
‘Of course, sir. I have a book.’
Chapter Four (#u348dba5c-fc91-5e1e-b3bd-2527c409ab46)
Why, oh why, did she feel the need to goad him? Clarissa pulled the bell rope. It was answered by a fresh-faced young girl, who carried a jug of what Clarissa presumed was ale, and another she saw was wine.
‘I’m sorry as you had to wait, M’Lady, but what a commotion outside.’ The girl’s eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘Everyone’s telling each other what ought to be done and only His Lordship seems to have any common sense, my mama says. The food will be along ever so soon.’ She bobbed a curtsey.
As soon as she could get a word in edgeways, Clarissa asked for their soup and pies to be held back, and for a small – she emphasised small – collation to be brought at once. Why Ben had agreed on hot food she had no idea, for the day was warm, and cold meats and salads would have been much more preferable.
Once the girl had returned with glasses, with yet another reiteration that the food was nigh on ready, Clarissa poured herself a goblet of wine, sat in a roomy and remarkably comfortable chair, and picked up her book. She took a sip of wine, and then another before she placed the goblet on a side table, and shuffled around to make herself more comfortable. Then she opened the book and began to read.
The warmth of the sun, which now shone directly through the window, the smooth, rounded taste of the wine, and her lack of sleep the night before began to take their toll. The words blurred on the page in front of her and her eyelids drooped.
‘Well, what have we here? Briar Rose? Should I awaken you with a kiss?’
Clarissa struggled up from her slumber. What was she doing dreaming of fairy tales? Why was Ben in her dreams? Or why did the hazy, attentive, faceless man who had wooed her in them now have a face, and a deep, smooth voice that curled around her like velvet?
The soft pressure on her cheeks made her open her eyes. Ben’s face was only inches away from hers.
‘I knew the kiss would do it? Shall I show you how?’ He moved closer and pressed his lips over hers. Clarissa opened her mouth to protest, as his eyelids closed, and he lifted her out of the chair and sat down with her on his lap.
Something pressed into her buttocks and she wriggled to dislodge it.
‘Stay still woman and kiss me back.’
Before she was able to utter a word, his tongue slid between her teeth and pressed on her tongue.
Her body tingled and goosebumps appeared on her arms as fast as urchins at a farthing scramble. What was he doing?
‘Kiss me back,’ he mumbled the words into her mouth.
Clarissa shut her eyes. How on earth did one kiss a man on the lips?
Easily she found. His hands stroked her neck and her arms as he held her close. Almost of its own volition, her tongue sought his and began to play.
Her skin was on fire and she stirred restlessly.
Why was he holding her fast? She needed to move to assuage the strange feelings that invaded her body. Her feet dangled and she stretched to get a toehold.
Ben lifted his mouth. ‘My dear, do you know what you are doing?’ His breathing was as erratic as Clarissa’s. ‘For a first kiss that was memorable.’
‘If it was our first kiss, no doubt.’
‘If you continue to encourage me so, I’ll take you up on your invitation.’ He slackened his grip, and set her on her feet. ‘What do you mean “if”? Are you saying we’ve kissed before, or it wasn’t a kiss?’
‘Whichever you think fits.’ Me and my big mouth. Clarissa staggered and he shot his arm out to steady her. ‘Ignore it.’ Why didn’t she sound cool, collected and in command? ‘I issued no invitation. You, you plundered and took.’ It was hard to remain calm when her bosom heaved, and her private places stung as if a bee had alighted. No wonder it was known as a woman’s honey pot. However, even in her agitated state she noticed the way he kept glancing at her chest. What was that part of a woman’s anatomy called other than breasts or chest, she wondered? Did men have a private name for those mammaries?
Once, she noticed a secret smile playing around his lips, and she itched to ask him what was funny. Only the thought that he might say ‘you’ stopped her.
‘I did indeed,’ he said at last, just before her temper got the better of her. ‘And believe me I enjoyed every second of it. No …’ He put his finger over her lips. ‘Silence is needed.’
Clarissa managed – just – not to bite his digit or, heavens above, suck it into her mouth.
‘Say no more. I have news for you, with regards to our carriage.’
She looked at him closely. Had his face taken on a greyish tinge? Or was it because the sun had gone behind a cloud?
‘It’s ready?’
He shook his head. ‘Sadly, no.’
Those pesky spiders were back in force.
‘Then shall I ring for the soup and pies?’ She was pleased how well she kept her voice level. ‘I assume we will have time to eat before it is repaired?’
‘Oh yes.’
Why did he stare at her so closely?
‘We have plenty of time,’ Ben said. ‘The wheelwright informs me it will be tomorrow before a new wheel is fashioned and fitted.’
Clarissa sat on the nearest chair with a thump that jarred her teeth.
‘Repeat that, please?’ she said faintly. ‘Slowly.’
‘Tomorrow, hopefully soon after breakfast. We may, if all goes well, get to the lodge before nightfall.’
She shook her head. He was jesting, surely? The wary look in her eyes told her he wasn’t. The spiders grew bigger and scrambled for a better place to torture her.
‘So, until then? What will we do?’
She mistrusted the gleam in his eyes. It was time to show she was no wallflower. ‘I, of course, have my book. So once we have eaten, I’ll let you do whatever you need to. Rest assured, you don’t have to worry about your need to entertain me, sir.’
He grinned. The grin she had seen from afar when he honed in on a usually willing woman to dally with.
‘Oh my love, believe me it will be no worry. I look forward to,’ he paused, ‘entertaining you. Ah.’ The door opened and the landlord and his wife bustled in with laden trays. ‘Refreshments.’
‘’Tis all here, M’ Lud.’ Blevins, the landlord, supervised the positioning of the bowls and platters. ‘And your bedchamber is ready if you need to freshen up. The one at the end of the corridor. The best room M’Lud.’
He ushered his wife out of the room.
Clarissa cleared her throat.
Ben pulled back a chair. ‘May I assist you?’
‘Room?’
He nodded and didn’t meet her gaze.
‘Room, my lord? As in room, singular?’ No wonder he looked anywhere but at her.
‘It seems the inn is full.’ Ben sliced a golden-crusted pie in half and inspected the contents. ‘Ah, chicken. May I help you to a slice?’
‘Then, yes, thank you, a small slice. I have a notion my appetite is about to desert me. Pray continue.’
‘Continue?’ He contrived to look almost bewildered. ‘What was I saying?’
‘Exactly.’ She spoke in a crisp, concise manner. ‘Continue. Resume. Carry on. Proceed. Shall I refresh your memory? I believe you were about to explain the lack of an “s” on the word room.’
‘We are lucky. Due to my rank, the landlord has rearranged the sleeping quarters. We now have his best bedchamber, and the young buck who was in it is relegated to the second best and so forth. The poor soul who was in the last room may well be in the stables or with the pot boy.’
‘Then I assume you’ll be in the pigsty,’ Clarissa said with studied indifference. ‘As I have no intention of sharing my room with anyone, let alone a man who snores after imbibing.’
The look on his face was incredulous. He put down the tankard of ale he held and stood over her.
Oh lud, have I taken one step too far?
‘Then rest assured, my love,’ he said and tilted her head upwards by dint of holding her chin, ‘I won’t imbibe and you can enjoy my … presence without fear of losing sleep.’ He paused and bent his head so his breath feathered over her ear. ‘At least not due to my snoring.’
****
Ben couldn’t help but gain a modicum of pleasure from the way his wife’s eyes widened and she visibly gulped. He was, he reckoned, not a cruel person. Although something about the way she stood up to him impressed him, it also annoyed him. A little bit of wifely adoration could surely be injected into her speech occasionally? He didn’t think he was that uninspiring, but nothing he said or did stopped her in her tracks. Except, maybe …
He began to plot.
‘Eat your pie, my dear. You’ll be glad of the sustenance, later.’
She sputtered on the mouthful of pastry she’d just taken and began to choke. Crumbs sprayed everywhere as she coughed. Her eyes watered and her face turned red.
Ben was alarmed. He only meant to tease her, not harm her. He patted her back with one hand, took up his jug of ale with the other, and held it to her mouth.
‘Drink.’ His tone brooked no argument. To his utter relief she did as he asked.
‘Th … thank you.’ She sputtered and coughed again. ‘No, no more, I beg you. Ale is never my drink of choice.’
He picked up the wine. She paled.
‘Not if you want me coherent.’
Ben laughed. He was enjoying himself. ‘Coherent is not necessary. Not comatose is. Drink.’
Her eyes narrowed, but she took a small sip.
‘Satisfied, my lord?’
‘Not in the slightest, my dear. However, I’m sure I will be’ – he paused, and drank some ale – ‘later.’
Clarissa put the goblet onto the table very carefully. Ben watched her warily as her hand tightened around the base and then relaxed. He had an inkling that she rather wished it were his neck it circled and compressed.
He waited for a retort or a query. None came. She walked her fingers through the air over the array of cakes and picked one up. ‘Ah, marchpane. My favourite. This is an excellent collation, don’t you think, my lord? To get it as perfect as this shows such a high standard of housewifery. And the napkins. Exquisite embroidery. They are a credit to the trade. ’Tis no wonder this is such a popular place. How did you manage to bespoke this private parlour?’
She chatted on in such a hostess-y way that Ben wanted to laugh. He deduced by the gleam in her eyes she spoke in that manner on purpose.
‘Money,’ he said.
Her lips twitched.
‘How satisfactory it is that you have enough for such niceties. Perhaps as you are so generous with your largesse on their behalf, I can ask her for the recipe for the fancy cakes? Apart from which, I must remember to congratulate the landlord and his wife. What is their name? I do think praise should be given when it’s due, don’t you?
‘Indubitably, my dear. And I hand it to you in copious amounts. That is so well done, I have no fear whatsoever that the role of my lady has not been filled to perfection.’
To Ben’s delight she put the cake back on the plate uneaten and giggled. The giggle turned into full-blown laughter, and her shoulders heaved. Tears ran down her face once more, but he could tell by her expression they were tears of helpless enjoyment, not due to choking. His heart became lighter to see this hidden side of his wife. Ben realised he’d done little over the past months to try to see her as anything other than a chore.
Eventually she lifted the starched square of linen provided as a napkin and wiped her eyes.
‘I wonder if you’ll think that once the novelty has worn off?’ she said, somewhat cryptically.
‘It’s no novelty,’ Ben said. She didn’t look as if she believed him. ‘Our marriage is permanent and for ever. It won’t become a habit, or discarded once the newness has worn off.’
‘Hmm, if you say so, my lord.’ She sounded even more sceptical.
Ben had the uneasy feeling that what each of them expected from marriage didn’t mesh.
‘However, there is one thing we need to get straight now,’ Clarissa said in a firm, no-nonsense tone.
Ben didn’t think he’d like her next sentence.
‘Do not for one minute think you’re sharing my bedchamber tonight.’
He was correct. He didn’t.
‘Clary, love,’ he began.
She held her hand up. ‘If there is something else guaranteed to make me not agree with whatever is asked, it is to call me Clary. However, even if you call me by my given name, or any other designated salutation, the answer is the same. No. Now, if you will excuse me. I think I shall retire. Alone. Immediately.’
And no doubt lock and bolt the door. Things were going from bad to worse.
Ben looked at the long case clock in the corner. ‘It’s only four in the afternoon.’ She obviously hadn’t realised that. They’d eaten between mealtimes due to their enforced delay. ‘Would you accompany me for a walk? He looked at her feet. They were clad in sensible half boots of soft kid, which were obviously designed for comfort on the journey. ‘I’ve changed horses here on many an occasion and if we go a little way up the lane across the road there’s a pretty view over the valley. It would do us good to stretch our legs.’ It might also give them a chance to talk again in a sensible, rational manner.
She tilted her head to one side. ‘Let me freshen up.’
****
Half an hour later, Clarissa allowed her husband to tuck her arm in his and accompanied him down a grassy lane out of the village. The late afternoon sun was warm enough for her to carry a lightweight shawl and not wear anything heavier over her travelling dress. She might not be enamoured of her marital status, or the stories told to her about her husband by every gossip in the ton, but she still had no intention of appearing anything less than her best. Her deep blue dress suited her complexion, and the lighter blue shawl lifted the outfit to be suitable for the weather.
Clarissa enjoyed walking, and even if the pace Ben kept was a little too slow for her liking, it was good to stroll along, smell the grass, and listen to the birds. Across to her right cattle lowed, and she guessed it was milking time. Although she rarely admitted it, Clarissa could milk a cow as well as any milkmaid, and the pleasure of drinking the milk, while it was still warm and frothy, was one she relished.
As they rambled together, chatting about the hedgerow flowers – Ben was remarkably well informed – and the agreeable weather, Clarissa realised it would be all too easy to forget her worries, and keep this peaceful interlude going. However, she had never been someone to shy away from unpleasant things or let them drift. The sleeping arrangements had to be settled.
‘My lord,’ she said. ‘We need to talk.’
‘My lady,’ Ben said. ‘Now we are wed, I’m sure it is quite permissible for you to call me Theodore, or, as I would prefer, Ben.’
‘Hmm.’
‘For the love of all things holy.’ Ben almost shouted the words. ‘Stop saying hmm. Please, I beg you. Say no or maybe or what on earth are you saying. Not hmm.’
Clarissa’s mind went into overload. What? She realised ‘hmm’ was her ‘I have no idea what to say’ word.
‘What on earth are you saying?’ she asked desperately. ‘I am at a loss. Except in the matter of my sleeping accommodation. I will not …’
‘Share – yes, I understand,’ Ben said and the disheartenment in his voice was easy to hear. ‘But, my love, hear me out. Perhaps if I promise to put a bolster between us? If I give you my oath not to go under the sheets, please can I at least rest my body on the mattress?’
His voice was so serious that Clarissa stopped walking and turned to him. ‘Why?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Oh, so many reasons. Pride? Certainly. Worry you will not be protected? Most definitely. The need for sleep? Oh yes. But most of all, I have a need to be near you. Why?’
He held her shoulders lightly with his fingers. His touch set off the strange tingles deep inside her once more. This close she could smell his clean, fresh, but still distinctly male, scent. It would have been oh so easy to lean into him, and ask him to show her all the things that made a maiden a woman. But what then? Clarissa had no intention of accepting a husband at his whim, and she was certain Ben had no intention of bucking the trend of society marriages and forsaking all other women. As much as she might want him, and it seemed she did, she had never been prepared to share things that mattered. Once she and Ben were a couple in every sense, that would be what she wanted. As it was as likely as she copying Lady Godiva, Clarissa intended to hold back until …
Until? She couldn’t answer that.
‘I cannot define the emotions within me that say I have to take care of my wife,’ Ben said seriously. It wasn’t a tone of voice he was renowned for. In Clarissa’s memory the only other time she’d heard such solemnity and determination was when he’d announced she was his wife-to-be.
‘Even if it is to make sure no one accosts you. This might be a safe village, and an inn of good quality, but one must still be vigilant. In all seriousness, Clarissa, I would not consummate our marriage in a common inn. You – we – deserve more than that. It will be for protection only.’ He grinned. ‘And to save me from the stables or worse.’
How could she resist the little-boy smile or the puppy-dog eyes? No full-blooded woman could.
‘Perhaps. I will think it over. If I do allow you into my room, then we will have to lay down some ground rules.’ Neither of them mentioned the fact that, in actuality, as his wife, Clarissa couldn’t bar him.
‘Thank you,’ Ben said soberly, and raised her hands to his lips. Instead of very properly kissing the gloved back, he slid the fine cotton down her hands and off her fingers. As she stared in astonishment at the dark, sun-teased curls on his head, he put the glove inside his jacket, turned her hand over and kissed each finger very slowly, before he pressed a final salute into the centre of her palm.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/raven-mcallan/the-scandalous-proposal-of-lord-bennett/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.