Bound By Temptation

by Lavinia Kent

  “Whatever do you mean?” Her fingers gripped the mug more tightly. Had someone at the tavern seen her? Had her mystery man not been discreet? Had he come looking for his watch? Perhaps Robert had just heard of her card game the previous evening? That would be scandal enough. She waited for Robert’s answer.

  “Jennie said you’d gone out with her early this morning. I am glad you’re making an effort to get to know her. I realize my engagement has not made things easy for you.”

  Clara put down the mug, her ready smile both from Robert’s clear infatuation with the girl and her own relief that last night’s debacle had not yet come home to roost. “I don’t know why you sound surprised. You know I adore Jennie.”

  Robert took a seat across from her, stretching his long legs toward the fire. “I know you like her, but adore seems a bit strong. To be frank, you’ve always seemed to like her the way a young girl likes kittens—they’re cute and warm and don’t often scratch.”

  “That’s fair,” she said. Robert had always known her too well. He’d been an undeveloped boy of thirteen to her own lofty eighteen when she’d first come here. Michael had been all of thirty-three, not much older than she was now. It had seemed a vast age difference between Robert and her at the time, but even then he’d seemed to understand all her secrets. Twelve years later, she sometimes forgot that he’d ever seemed a child. “I must admit she’s always just been about, happy and smiling. But ever since you’ve shown a preference for her, I’ve made an effort to better our acquaintance. She has a keen intelligence underneath that gentle countenance.”

  “You must know I wouldn’t have proposed if she’d been all fluff.” Robert leaned forward and plucked her mug off the table. He smiled mischievously before taking a deep drink. “You like bergamot too much. I thought I’d brought you around to smokier blends.”

  Clara could only stare at the mug in his hands. He frequently stole her tea and her biscuits. The intimacy of it had been so familiar that she’d never realized it until this moment. It was a gesture of comfort and family.

  She’d appreciated the sensuality and control of the man’s move that morning, but not the level of closeness it placed between them.

  She swallowed hard and attempted an answer. “I know you’re partial to blends that smell and taste like a peat fire, but please spare me. I am after all a lady.”

  “You are that, Clara. Despite your best attempts to prove otherwise.” Robert put the tea back down. “I am pleased by your behavior these last months. I know you don’t see it as my place to govern you, but I have worried in the years since my father’s death. You haven’t always seemed to care about the repercussions of your actions.”

  Little did Robert know. Her actions had always been formed with a strong understanding of their repercussions. Still, there were some things one couldn’t tell one’s stepson even if he often seemed more of a friend and she longed for someone to confide in. “We both know I wasn’t quite a lady when he found me. I’ve never felt as if I belonged since he’s been gone. But you know I rarely talk about him and those years following his death, and it has no reflection on my current good behavior. I’d be dancing on tables in Mayfair if it weren’t for Lord Darnell and his requirements in a son-in-law.”

  “You’ve never danced on tables in your life, but I do appreciate your help with Lord Darnell. He was very clear what would be expected of me, and of you, if I was to claim Jennie.”

  Little did Robert know if he thought she’d never danced on tables. She’d danced on one in this very room, if memory served. Her husband had loved a good laugh and all it could lead to. Clara wondered what Robert would think if he knew that most of the behaviors that society had so objected to had begun in the warm confines of her marriage, knew that it was her fear that she had never lived up to Michael’s expectations that had led to so much of her outrageous behavior.

  She turned to Robert with a forced smile. Thinking of the past and the mistakes she had made would lead only to melancholy. “You know Lord Darnell has no objections to you. It’s me he fears will corrupt his sweet Jennie and ruin his family name. For the second son of a duke, he has a greater sense of importance than several princes I have met.”

  “I think he still holds out hope that Jennie will land a duke. You are just his excuse—not that I think he would hesitate to force her to cry off the engagement should he so desire.” Robert tapped his fingers against the rim of the cup. He shook himself slightly before looking back up at her. “And when have you met princes?”

  “Certainly not in Norfolk. I am afraid princes fall into those questions you don’t really want me to answer.” The smile was easier now.

  “Mother, certainly not Prinny—I hope.” Robert only called her mother when he wanted either to exasperate her or to make her smile. She reckoned it was both at the moment.

  “No, not Prinny—although I have been introduced. And if you had seen him in my youth…” Clara said. She wiggled her toes in the heavy socks. Blood slowly returned to them. “I stuck to princes of the foreign variety—Italian, Russian, even an African, I believe.”

  “You don’t mean—” There was both horror and curiosity in Robert’s voice.

  She picked up the cold tea and took a sip, glancing over the rim at him. He just stared. Finally, she gave in. “Oh, don’t be silly. I thought you knew me better than that, and besides, I already told you that you didn’t want to know.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. It’s my business and not my fault if I’ve only confused you more. You did ask.” Smiling to herself, she plopped the mug back on the table and stood. “Now I’ve a pile of correspondence to complete.”

  She turned to the door, her mind filling with the details of the letters she needed to write.

  “No, don’t go.” Robert’s words stopped her.

  She turned back, her brows lifted in question.

  He hesitated a moment and then started slowly. “I’ve let you change the subject, but I really do want to know. Why did you get so wild after Father’s death? I do remember you before, and you were very different than in those years after.”

  It was her turn to hesitate. “I wasn’t aware that my wildness was the subject.”

  Meeting her gaze straight on, he answered, “Perhaps it wasn’t exactly the subject—but don’t you think it’s time to tell me? I’ll be married soon and I really would like to understand.”

  Previous misgivings of being unable to share her secrets came back to her, as did the question of sharing such things with her stepson. Still, he was right. He was soon to face his own marriage, and although the history of her own might not help, it probably would not hurt to tell him at least part of the truth. She sank back into her chair. “It’s hard to explain. I’ve never been quite sure I understood my reasons myself, but they always felt right. Do you remember how much your father liked to have fun?”

  Robert’s eyes clouded for a moment, and then he smiled, a smile that filled his entire face. “It would be hard to forget. I think he started more trouble than I did.”

  It was her turn to smile. “Yes, I have no doubt that he did. He loved having a son to play with. He wasn’t always as sure about his wife.”

  “He loved you.” Robert spoke with absolute conviction.

  “Yes, he did. And I, him. But I never pursued joy with the same vigor. He always regarded me as a bit of a stick-in-the-mud. He could never understand why I didn’t want to spend my days thinking of nothing but enjoyment. And then he died.”

  They were both silent for a moment.

  Clara drew in a deep breath and then continued. “After his death, I wondered if I’d failed him. If things would have been different if I’d lived more the way he wanted me to.”

  Robert looked at her solemnly. “I can only say again that he loved you.”

  She smiled at him again, only slightly sadly. “Yes, but after his death I wished I had tried more to see the world the way he did—and so I decided to try. It made m
e feel closer to him, and I have to admit that I did rather enjoy myself.”

  “Well, I should hope so,” Robert replied, his lips held tight.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I am well aware I may have gone a little too far—but your father never did have any limits. And besides, I’ve decided to change my ways. I’ve come to understand how much joy there is in life without causing outrage.”

  Doubt spread across Robert’s face.

  She wrinkled her nose at him and stood again. “You’ll just have to wait and see—and now I really do have to get to my correspondence. Which you also don’t want to know about—if only because it is so dull. The only interesting one in the bunch is from Lady Smythe-Burke, and I still must get through three pages about the proper colors for new drapes before she’ll get to the gossip.”

  Robert started to say something—she could see he was not so ready to let the subject of past behavior drop—but after a moment he nodded and answered only, “No letters from Lady Carrington, or the new Mrs. Struthers? I thought your dear friends never let a day go by without putting pen to paper.”

  She walked to the door and turned back to him. “You must think we have nothing to do in our lives. Violet Carrington has only just returned to London after searching for her sister and is beginning to think about planning her wedding. I swear if she puts the date off one more time I’ll have to have a new dress made. And Anna—I’ll never think of her as Mrs. Struthers—has her own worries and little time to share them. Even I am only taking up my pen because of this blasted weather. I rather like the country when the sun is out, but cold rain puts a damper on almost anything I desire to do here.”

  “I don’t even want to hear about what you could be doing in Town.” He stood also, brushing biscuit crumbs off his pants. “I am sure that is one of those questions I don’t want answered—no matter what you claim about your future behavior. And I did not mean to imply that you and your friends have nothing to do. I am well aware that you spend more time running my estates than I do. Women are the backbone of England and I never forget it.”

  “For all that, you started the conversation implying that you’d like to govern me.”

  “Don’t tease me.” Robert joined her in the doorway. “That isn’t quite what I said, and I know I’d have as much success governing you as the barn cat’s new kittens.”

  “And yet those kittens will learn to catch rats just fine without you.”

  Robert walked by her. “I think I’ll go hide in my study and stare at the account books. I haven’t forgotten that we began the conversation also comparing Jennie to a kitten, and I don’t want to imagine her catching rats or learning anything else without me.”

  He looked like a little boy who had finally beat his father at chess. Clara reached out a hand and patted his cheek before turning and heading up the stairs. His footsteps echoed down the hall below, and she heard the creak of his study door.

  She doubted he’d get much work done this morning. His head was too full of Jennie for that. She hoped Lord Darnell would relent and let them marry soon. Jennie was almost the age Clara had been when she married Michael. Her mother had still thought her young, but she was grateful for every moment she’d had with him. Her hand shook as she grasped the stair rail. She closed her eyes for a moment to gather strength.

  It still hurt to think about him. She could go for days now without thinking about their time together—and how it had ended. It was why she had fled to London after his death and stayed there for as long as she could—if only she could have been as carefree as Michael had wanted during his life instead of waiting until after. Being in London had made forgetting so much easier.

  It did feel good to have talked about it, though. She had told Robert far from everything, but her soul felt lighter for the words.

  Being back here was teaching her just how ready she was for change. And it was not as painful as she’d expected. Not even sleeping in the bed that she’d shared with Michael for those precious years had left her bereft. Granted, she’d had the room redecorated, but the bed was still the same, narrow mahogany posters rising to the high canopy. She’d been frightened of the dreams that bed would bring, but she’d slept far better here than she ever had in Town. She really was ready to move on, to start anew. Strength and commitment filled her.

  She paused halfway up the stairs and considered as a new thought filled her. Why had she decided to tell Robert so much now? Why did thoughts of Michael surround her?

  It was that blasted man from The Dog. She didn’t know why or how, but it was his presence that had revived Michael’s ghost. There was something in the way he made her feel that made her relationship with Michael come back to her.

  A glance across a church fete.

  The first innocent kiss.

  A second not so innocent kiss.

  Refusing him.

  Giving in.

  Disbelief that he wanted to marry her.

  Marriage.

  Perfect days.

  Angry days. Fighting. Making up.

  Fighting, again.

  Never feeling she was quite enough.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the heavy paned window over the front door. It was amazing how living a life determined not to have any regrets, any missed opportunities, could lead to so many doubts. She would not think further. If she let her mind follow this track, it would lead to that final tragedy, and that could not be borne.

  With firm determination, she turned up the stairs. She would read Lady Smythe-Burke’s letter again. Plum versus apricot as the prime choice for curtains might not be one of the more important questions in life, but it could certainly be mind-numbing.

  “Drat.” It was a mild curse and Clara said it without force. She’d been trying to write this letter since this time yesterday and still had made no progress. The tip of the pen ran over the paper smoothly and left no puddle of ink behind. The temptation to press a little too hard, to write a little too slowly was great. There could be much pleasure in destruction—even of something as simple as a sheet of paper.

  She dipped the pen into the ink and left it there, folding her hands neatly in her lap. They still trembled. When she’d arrived home, she had blamed the tremors on the cold. Yesterday, she had blamed them on the memories of Michael.

  Now she needed to face the truth.

  She was shaken by the lack of memory of that night, and the deep sense of violation that filled her. She wished she believed it was as simple as having indulged too much, from having moved from ale to whiskey and downing it with equal speed.

  Unfortunately, she’d downed more than her share of whiskey in the past, and she knew what the next morning felt like. There was pain and there was blur—a friend might remark on something Clara could remember only in the faintest outline, but it was there. It was in her mind, even when she couldn’t remember the specifics—it was there.

  Now there was nothing.

  She remembered dinner, and the discomfort of laying to rest Mr. Green’s hopes, and Mr. Johnson’s visit afterward. She even remembered Mr. Johnson saying he was off to The Dog and Ferret. He’d been shocked at her desire to accompany him, but whether it was the loneliness in her eyes or fear of offending her, he’d said nothing when she’d sent the maid for her cloak, and they’d walked to the tavern in comfortable silence, his horse trailing behind.

  Robert was supposed to be stopping by the tavern later in the evening. She’d planned on traveling back with him—which had to mean she wouldn’t have overindulged. The whole point of her stay in Aylsham was to prove she could be a proper lady. She would not have flaunted extreme impropriety in his face.

  Oh, she knew that going to The Dog was improper in itself, but it was a harmless thing. Robert would have understood—and Lord Darnell would never have heard.

  She clenched her hands tighter. She’d arrived at the tavern for a drink expecting that Robert would drive her home after he tilted a tankard or two himself and finished his
business with Mr. Johnson.

  She hadn’t expected to play cards. That had just happened in the way these things do. Someone called to her, she said, “Why not,” and that was that.

  Only it wasn’t. Why did the rest of it vanish?

  Why could she not remember the man? She really should have learned his name before she left. It seemed too much like a novel—abducted by the tall, dark stranger.

  He’d been the hero from a book, not a real man at all. A real abductor would be short with bad skin and smell of cheese. She snorted at the thought.

  No, this man with those near black eyes and strong jaw had resembled a footman. She might have said an actor or a soldier, but the majority of footmen were better-looking than the men who trod the boards at Drury Lane or fought for His Majesty. The man might even have been qualified to be one of Lady Smythe-Burke’s footmen. The lady might be old, but that didn’t interfere with her eyesight, and she’d be the first to say so.

  Her hands relaxed as she thought of the stranger again. She’d felt safe when she was with him. It was a strange thing to say, but true nonetheless. When he’d held her wrist to untie the bonds, it had been with the gentleness he’d hold a newly hatched chick. His grasp had been so warm and safe—no, safe was not the correct term, those tingles of heat that had run through her belly at his touch were not safe.

  This was not productive. She should not be dreaming of a man who thought she’d stolen his watch. She couldn’t even imagine where he’d gotten that idea. Why hadn’t she asked him when she had the chance? Well, it was too late now. She’d probably never see him again.

  Her fascination was nothing more than relief from the monotony of country life.

  She stood and paced once across the room. The rain continued to pour down heavily as it had since the previous morning, pounding against the windows with every sudden gust of wind. It was not a day for marching off her frustrations in the fields.