Bound By Temptation

by Lavinia Kent

  His stomach felt lined in lead, but surely that was not an uncommon response in a man about to propose. Giving up one’s freedom was never easy.

  Clara watched the interplay from across the room. There could be no mistaking that hearty handshake—a deal was about to be finalized.

  For a moment she almost faltered. She had assumed it was over and done, never imagining she might actually be forced to bear witness to the whole affair.

  Her belly turned and soured for the first time since she had found out about the baby. She clenched her lips tight and began a stately dash toward the ladies’ withdrawing room. The only thing that could make this evening worse would be to lose the contents of her stomach in public.

  All he had to do was say the words. He didn’t even have to worry about the response. That had been clear, first in her father’s handshake and now in Miss Thompson’s eyes.

  The terrace was lit by the great windows of the ballroom, the light falling in long stripes amid the shadows. He could still see the crowd in all its gaiety gathered within.

  Miss Thompson shivered slightly and moved closer to him. Her long paisley shawl had not been designed for the chill of this night. It would perhaps be gentlemanly, under the circumstances, to wrap an arm about her shoulders.

  He found himself strangely reluctant to do so. Instead, he peered off into the walled garden. In daylight it was probably possible to see the signs of lush growth and early summer, but in the full dusk of the evening, all he could see were silhouetted branches and shorn grass. It was decidedly bleak. Even the paving stones looked unusually gray. Stones were supposed to be gray, but these seemed sucked of life.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” she asked.

  Both the suddenness and the content of the question shocked him.

  Miss Thompson took an extra step forward into his path and turned to face him, so that they stood face to face. Her chin tilted up in expectation.

  As the words had not come before, now his lips seemed loath to cooperate. He lowered them anyway, placing a dry kiss upon her mouth. She leaned into him.

  She smelled of something floral and mixed, the smell overly sweet for his senses. Her lips were warm and soft.

  It should have been pleasant—wonderful, even.

  It was like kissing his sister, his much younger sister.

  In fact, he was sure he’d soothed many a scraped knee with just such an innocent kiss—not on the lips to be sure, but this felt little different than kissing a forehead or a cheek.

  Even as the thought filled his brain, he pulled back and stared down at her.

  She was a child. He didn’t know why the thought had never taken him so completely. Clara had certainly joked about it enough times.

  Miss Thompson looked up at him in question—and expectation.

  He knew what he was supposed to do now. The words were still there, lodged in the back of his throat, but they were no more willing to come out than they had been before the kiss.

  “That was nice,” she said.

  He coughed, hoping to find words to say, if not the perfect words, at least any words.

  She was still smiling, her lips unswollen from the kiss, but her eyes filled with coming joy. They would not stay that way for long if he did not speak.

  “Yes.” Well, that was a word at least.

  “I’ve heard this is difficult for men. I cannot quite imagine why, but I can see that it is so. Would it help to walk a moment more?”

  He nodded, and she slipped her arm back through his. They had reached the edge of the terrace, and the only way forward was down into the darkened garden. Taking those steps would be as effective as actually saying the words. As long as they were within sight of the windows, respectability could be pretended, even with the kiss. Once he took that step into the full darkness, his intentions would be set.

  He set his shoulders back and prepared to take that step. Miss Thompson huddled even closer.

  “And where would you be off to, brother?” Violet’s voice called from behind.

  He turned to see her standing in the doorway, St. Johns just behind.

  He cleared his throat. “Miss Thompson and I thought to take a bit of air.”

  “How foolish men are,” Violet said to Miss Thompson in a stage whisper and then cast a knowing look up at her fiancé. “Lady Smythe-Burke saw me heading out to take a breath myself and warned me of the cold. She mentioned she’d seen you head out yourself and was worried for Miss Thompson. She’s dreadfully afraid the poor girl will catch a chill and be taken with consumption. I can see for myself that the child is chilled through and through. Her very lips are turning blue. I would have thought you’d be more careful, Masters.”

  She said the last with a strange emphasis. It was clear she had guessed his intention, but whether her problem was his proposing in a cold, damp garden or in his proposing at all, he could not say.

  “I am sure you are right, Violet,” he replied. “We men are foolish creatures.”

  “I never thought to hear you say it,” she murmured, before turning her attention to Miss Thompson. “Now do come with me, dear. There’s a nice fire in the drawing room and it will get you right warmed up.”

  She turned to her fiancé. “And you, my love, you take my brother to Gadsworth’s private library and pour him a large brandy. He looks close to frozen himself. I am sure that Lady Smythe-Burke told you right where it was kept. The lady seems to keep the plans to every house in London tucked between her ears. I’ve even known her to recall rooms the hostess can’t.”

  “Come along now, Miss Thompson.”

  And just like that, he let himself be managed.

  Or at least he pretended he did—because he knew now that the step would never have been taken, the words never spoken.

  Even as Violet had called out to him, he had known he could not do it.

  He might want a young biddable bride, a slim blonde to give him his preplanned children.

  Yes, that might be what he believed he wanted.

  It was not, however, what he needed.

  He knew exactly what he needed. It had only taken one look from his sister up toward her husband, one look as she teased and managed, one look that told of understanding and comfort for him to see all too clearly what he needed.

  It was time to go and find her.

  Being sick was not pleasant. Clara had forgotten just how unpleasant. Why had she had beets with dinner? She spat into the basin, glad that she had the room to herself. Picking up the pitcher of water, she poured a glass and swished it around her mouth.

  She wished it were brandy.

  That would wash away the flavor.

  She spat again, before carefully rinsing the basin. There was nothing she could do about the lingering odor.

  She stared at herself in the mirror.

  Big cat’s eyes in a narrow pinched face. Most days she could at least find a glimpse of the beauty others seemed to find there. When she was with Masters, she actually felt the beauty, saw it reflected in his gaze.

  Now she just looked tired, tired and dried out. She pinched at her cheeks, trying to draw color into them. A few pink spots appeared, but it would have been a great stretch to call them blooms or roses.

  Biting her lips proved slightly more effective. At least they turned red.

  She fluffed her hair with her fingers. It sprang obediently into curls. That was good.

  She pinched her cheeks again. It would have to do. She would go downstairs and make her farewells. She would explain that she planned to leave on a trip in the morning and that she needed to rise early.

  Maybe she wouldn’t even explain.

  It wasn’t as if anybody cared.

  God, her mouth tasted awful. The ham tartlets and lemonade had not been pleasant on the way down and were certainly not improved by their upward journey.

  She was feeling sorry for herself, a whiny, unpleasant girl.

  She smiled wryly. She was hardly a girl.

&n
bsp; She was a woman, and it was time she acted as one.

  Her decision had been made, and it was unseemly to complain, even to herself, about it.

  She would go downstairs, make her farewells, and begin her new life. She had nothing to complain about.

  It was all as she had chosen.

  She swept out of the room just as two other ladies entered. One shot her a strange look.

  Was her recent discomfort plain to see?

  She really needed that brandy, just a single swish, one taste to sweeten the evening.

  She stopped by the door to Gadsworth’s private library.

  There was a decanter within. She’d once spent an evening playing chess and laughing with Gadsworth and friends and she knew just where that decanter was.

  Opening the door, she stepped in.

  She’d have one small toast to her new life.

  Chapter 16

  “Will you marry me?” The words that had refused to leave his lips earlier positively jumped from them as he saw Clara enter the room.

  She stopped still in her tracks. He watched her eyes widen as they caught sight of him, and then grow wider still as his words filtered into her mind.

  “Marry you?” she said, her voice quivering. “Is this a farce? Surely, I did not hear you correctly, or perhaps you expected Miss Thompson.”

  “No, I—my words may have been hasty, but they reached their intended target.”

  Did her legs shake as she walked and perched on the edge of Gadsworth’s desk? She lifted her large eyes to him, the color reflecting gold in the dim light of the single oil lamp.

  “Marry you?” she asked again.

  “Is it so strange a thought?” he replied. He was himself aghast that he had asked the question in such a fashion, but he could see he was not as dismayed as she.

  She didn’t reply this time, but just sat staring at him. She licked her lips, and he became aware how pale she was. Her skin lacked its usual vitality and even her lips were almost white.

  At first he thought it was his question that had so leached her color, but he realized she had looked peaked from the moment she entered the room.

  Oh, she still looked beautiful. He expected she could be a hundred years old, covered in manure, and he would still find her radiant. It was something far beyond her physical appearance that caught and held him each time he saw her.

  She licked her lips again. It was not the seductive gesture that it often was, but rather one of nerves and discomfort.

  “Would you pour me a finger of brandy?” She gestured with her head toward the cabinet from which St. Johns had so recently filled his own glass.

  He rose to do so, then paused and picked his own still half-full glass off the table, bringing it over to her.

  As he held it out he could see the memory of that first teacup reflected in her eyes. She hesitated and then took the glass, taking a small sip from it. Her mouth avoided the spot where his own lip print lay.

  There was a message in both gestures.

  She took another swallow and then looked up at him. “I didn’t realize you knew Gadsworth well enough to know where to find the best stash.”

  “I don’t, but St. Johns does. He joined me for a drink before going off to search out Violet. I stayed behind to finish and have a moment’s quiet.”

  “And then I arrived.” She set the glass beside her on the table. “Are you serious in suggesting marriage?”

  “Yes, I have never been more so.” He had never felt so nervous. He wanted to move closer to her, but something in her glance held him back.

  “And what of Miss Thompson? I thought you were planning to ask her, that she was your ideal bride. Did she refuse your suit? Did her father? I know he is a man of high standards, but…”

  “No, or yes, or—I had intended to ask Miss Thompson, but I found that I could not.”

  She raised a brow.

  He continued, “Her father indicated his approval, and Miss Thompson herself gave me reason to believe that she would agree.”

  “And how did she do that?”

  “Well”—he felt some discomfort now—“she asked me to kiss her.”

  Clara pursed her lips. “And did you?”

  “Yes, it was not a bad kiss.”

  “I take it this happened this evening?”

  “Yes, on the terrace.” He should not have told her about the kiss, but it was part of making her understand.

  “So, you kiss Miss Thompson on the terrace—not a bad kiss—and within the hour you are proposing to me in the library. Are you that great a libertine, or is there something I have missed?”

  Why did she sound so angry? He had always thought women were supposed to be overcome with joy at the prospect of matrimony. Instead, she looked distinctly sour.

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Then how was it?” She leaned toward him, and again he was tempted to move closer.

  He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. While he had never considered himself a wordsmith, never before had he found himself so unable to form coherent sentences. “I found I couldn’t ask her. That is all.”

  “Not ask your ideal wife to marry you, why ever not?”

  “I realized that she was not my ideal—you were.” There, that sounded articulate—and flattering.

  She laughed. She actually laughed, and not the full, low laugh that did such wonderfully strange things to him. This laugh was tight and strained. “You expect me to believe I am your ideal? I begin to fear that you are having some type of fun with me, that it is a farce after all.”

  “I assure you I am not.”

  She lifted a hand to her hair. “I am not blond.”

  “I find perhaps my tastes have changed.”

  “I am of far from slender build.”

  “Have I ever seemed to mind that?”

  She was still for a moment and then slipped off the desk. Stepping toward him, her fingers curled into white fists at her sides, her eyes almost flat. “I have never borne a living child. I do not know that I will ever deliver a healthy baby.”

  That brought him to his feet. “Never borne a living—” Comprehension filled him. “Oh, Clara, I did not know. I am so sorry.”

  She turned her face from him toward the darkened window. “And now that you do know?”

  “My heart goes out to you. Although Violet has never spoken to me of it, I know that she has faced some of the same pain. She once had a child who lived for only hours, and even months later, I could see the pain of it in her face.”

  He reached out to soothe her, but she stepped away.

  “That is not what I meant.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Why would you want a wife who might not give you an heir?”

  “There is no guarantee with any woman that children are possible.”

  He could see her body tighten as he spoke the words and knew he had made a mistake. “I do apologize. I only meant to say that you do not even know that there is a problem.”

  “That is an easy thing for you to say. But why would you even wish to take such a risk?”

  There had to be a right thing to say—only there didn’t seem to be. “All I can say is that it is a risk I am willing to take. My estates are not entailed. If we have no children, I am sure there is some worthy relative.”

  She turned from him, and he could see how tightly drawn her shoulders were, the blades almost meeting at her spine. She did not walk away, but stayed still, her face and body averted from him. “I do not see that it is so easy. It appears unlikely that Violet will have a child, and who knows of Isabella. I have never heard mention of other relatives.”

  “It matters not.” He tensed at the mention of Isabella. Was it the time to speak of her and all the possibilities of her departure? No, that would wait. He would win no favor with Clara by discussing the mistakes of his past.

  She lifted a small piece of statuary from a side table and stared with apparent interest at the tiny shepherd. He did not believe t
hat she could have told him a thing about it if he asked. Her whole focus was inward.

  He waited for her to say something. The single lamp flickered, making shadows dance dimly about the room. He wanted so desperately to take that step closer to her, to feel the warmth of her body and to know that there was hope.

  She placed the shepherd back on the table and lifted her head. He could see resolve in her posture.

  “I have mentioned appearance, social perception, and the possibility of an heir as reasons we should not even consider marriage,” she said. “These are all reasons that I don’t understand why you would wish to marry me. I have not even broached the reasons that I would not wish to marry you.”

  It was his turn to feel discomfort. “Reasons not to marry me?”

  “You are a bully.” She said it as fact, without question.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “We have already discussed many times the ways you pushed your sisters toward marriage. While I have come to understand your reasoning, I still do not agree with it. You see your own opinion as the only valid one. I do not see why I should wish to place myself in your power.”

  “I would disagree. I did the only possible thing in regard to my sisters—and regretting it now will make no difference. Yes, I trust my own opinion on most matters. And after watching my parents’ failings, I knew that it was important to make strong decisions. If my father had done what he believed to be right, I would not have been forced to deal with their problems. I am no different than most others. Who does not think that he is right most often? But I do believe that I listen to reasonable argument.”

  “Violet did not find it so.” She sounded so deadened of emotion as she spoke.

  That was a question he was ready to handle. “Did Violet ever speak of arguing with me? It is so easy for her, and you, to claim that I do what I want without consult of others, but when has this been the case? Violet never spoke strongly against her marriages. If she had, there is the possibility that things might have been different. You have in the past expressed dissatisfaction that I never gave Violet a choice. Perhaps the truth is simply that she never asked for one—or at least not until long after it had ceased to matter.”