by Lynn Kerstan
She took a moment to answer. “In part. But my God, how could anyone chance becoming ill for a few minutes of—well, whatever one experiences when …” Her voice faded off.
He sat forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and buried his chin between his hands. “Ah, Clare. I cannot explain in words why I need a woman in my bed, or why a woman desires a man. You will understand when we are lovers. And you can be assured that you are safe with me, as I am with you.”
She put her hand on his thigh. “You have a deeper reason for taking such care. I hear it in your voice. Do you want to tell me?”
He managed a wry grin. “Not until you answer another question about yourself, my dear. One confidence at a time, in equal measure. Agreed?”
“Perhaps it is better that way. But if it’s now my turn to share a secret, we’ll make no further progress.”
“Have you so many secrets, butterfly?”
“None to speak of,” she said tranquilly. “Shall I enjoy the opera, do you think?”
Recognizing submission, Bryn came to his feet. “You’ll either like it or hate it, but you must judge for yourself.”
“Will everyone stare at me?”
“I have a prominent box, Clare. We can’t help but be noticed. Still, it is not my intention to flaunt you in public. I love the opera, even the silliness and high theatrics, and wish to share it with you.” He didn’t give her time to change her mind. “I shall collect you at nine o’clock. We needn’t arrive for the preliminary concert, which is always terrible, nor stay for the afterpiece. Will you wear the gold silk? Lacey told me it had been delivered.”
He kept track of her wardrobe? Clare studied his face, reading nothing there but sincerity and something that looked like friendliness. “As you wish, my lord.”
“Until tonight,” he said with a bow. “And please, call me Bryn. Or any name you choose that does not set us at distance. You cannot hold me away with words, Clare, however hard you try.”
“I don’t mean to,” she confessed. “But you are so … lordly.”
He laughed. “You won’t think so when you know me better.”
IF BRYN EXPECTED gratitude, he was disappointed.
“I don’t want it,” Clare told him flatly when he opened the satin-lined case and held out an exquisite gold-and-topaz necklace.
“Someday perhaps you will. And jewelry is de rigueur at the opera. Do you wish everyone to think me a pinchpenny?”
“Perish the thought,” she said, as he fastened the clasp at her nape. His hand lingered there until she deliberately swung around.
“It suits you,” he remarked before she could speak. “As does your gown. You are always beautiful, Clare, but especially so tonight.”
And so was he, she reflected, while he hooked a matching bracelet around her wrist. The earl was rigged out in evening dress, all black and white except for the pale gold lining of his cape and the darker gold of his brocade waistcoat. A diamond stickpin winked from his cravat.
“I am quite put in the shade by my escort,” she said a little breathlessly. “You are altogether magnificent.”
He stepped back, an astonished look on his face. “Was that a compliment?”
“I’m afraid so.” She tilted her head. “It pains me to flatter you, for you are too vain as it is, but I could not help myself.”
He looked absurdly pleased. “Thank you. That may be the first kind thing you ever said to me. I shall contrive to remember magnificent,” he added with a wink, “and forget the retraction that followed.”
“I daresay you always ignore what you do not wish to hear,” she said crisply.
Chuckling, he draped a fur-edged satin cape around her shoulders. “If all your evening gowns are so modest, I must employ another mantua maker. It is the fashion to reveal a bit more flesh above the waist.”
“The dressmaker is not to blame.” She tugged the cape over her breasts. “I modified her designs. But perhaps I do not comprehend the distinction between fashionable and unseemly.”
“Just as well. The loveliest sights are best reserved for my own eyes.”
As the earl escorted her out the back door to a coach waiting in the alley, she wondered what he expected in exchange for the necklace and bracelet. If sold, they would keep her in frugal comfort for some time. Perhaps he was being kind, providing for her future, but he was also damnably controlling. The necklace felt like the collar of a leash around her throat.
They had traveled only a short way when the coach pulled to a stop on a narrow side street. Bryn swung out immediately and lifted his hand. “Come along, princess. Your chariot awaits.” He pointed to an enormous carriage with crested panels, drawn by four matched bays.
A liveried footman lowered the steps and assisted her into a lamplit compartment paneled with rich wood.
Settling across from her, Bryn stretched his long legs so that his calf rested against the side of her leg. “A bit of subterfuge,” he explained. “I cannot be seen coming and going from Ernestine’s house, and damned if I’ll show up at the opera—”
“Without the accompanying splendor,” she finished with a smile. “A wonder anyone bothers going into the theater at all, when they could simply line up outside and look at you for entertainment.”
“They are waiting inside, Clare—to look at us.”
Her amusement fled.
“You are too beautiful not to draw attention,” he said quietly.
She felt her cheeks go hot. “Will they all know I’m a virgin?”
“They will know that you were so when you came to me. My requirements for a mistress are no secret in London. But I expect they’ll assume we are already lovers.”
The necklace tightened a notch around her throat, blazing a surrender that had yet to occur. She didn’t know which was worse—having everyone think her still a maiden, or certain the thing was already done.
“I’ve tried to make this as easy for you as possible,” he assured her. “To avoid the crowd, we shall arrive just before the opera begins and leave early. There is one interval, during which we are likely to be the main attraction, but except for those twenty minutes, you need not fear prying eyes.”
Twenty minutes on the rack, she thought glumly.
“You’ll enjoy the performance more if you know the story,” he said. “It’s a minor work, by a composer with great skill at music and no sense at all of drama.” Clearly trying to put her at ease, he proceeded to weave a tale so outlandish that she was scarcely aware when the carriage drew up in the Haymarket. But she was very aware of the other latecomers pausing to watch as he led her through the gilded doors of the Opera House.
From the foyer, they turned down a dim passage and ascended two flights of stairs. “This is the back way,” he said, drawing her into an alcove. “Now we’ll wait until the promenade is clear.” When the orchestra was midway through the overture, Bryn guided her down a mirrored hall to his box. It could seat eight people, she saw, but near the railing, two padded chairs were set apart from the others. As they settled in, the curtain opened.
Angling his chair so he could see both the stage and her lovely profile, Bryn gave a tiny sigh of relief. Almost immediately, Clare seemed entranced by the color and pageantry.
He had orchestrated the interval with the same care he’d made all the other arrangements for this night. Only Lacey and Claude would be admitted to the box by the servant guarding the door.
Clare liked the music, he noted with approval. He often took his mistresses to the theater, but seldom to the opera. Not one had really enjoyed it. Perhaps at last he’d found someone to share his fascination, to talk with afterward about the performance, to compare impressions. Even Lacey, who loved theater, was bored by opera and was only making an appearance, under duress, to help the interval pass smoothly.
Too soon, the first act finished to loud acclaim from the audience. After an interminable series of bows, the singers left the stage.
Clare sat like a stone, hands clasp
ed in her lap, staring at the velvet curtain.
“Smile at me,” Bryn said between his teeth. “Or if you cannot, at least open your fan and hide that martyred expression.”
Mechanically, she obeyed, fluttering it before her chalk-white face while he laughed as if she’d said something amusing.
“The fat tenor gets the girl,” he informed her, “although it’s just as well she kills herself in the final scene. Better a knife to the breast than slow death by suffocation.”
Her eyes widened, and then she smiled. “I didn’t think he’d be able to waddle all the way across the stage for that last embrace.”
“Wait until you see him in the sword fight. Ubaldo fences with the grace of a rhinoceros.”
She managed to fix the smile on her lips, but he couldn’t miss the frantically whipping fan and the terror in her eyes. “They are all l-looking at us, aren’t they?”
“Clare, they are looking at the most beautiful woman they have ever seen. The women are curious or jealous. The men wish they could trade places with me. Try to relax. Do you want them to see you are afraid?”
“I am none of their business,” she said, with a welcome return of spirit.
“How sad they’ve nothing better to do than ogle us,” he agreed. “Shall we ogle them in return?” He pulled out his quizzing glass and swept the audience with an arrogant, assessing gaze. Then he pointed to a box directly across from them. “Look, my dear. There is Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington. The one with the long nose. One of these nights, if he’s lucky, I’ll admit him to the box and introduce you.”
Clare could not resist stealing a glance at the hero of Waterloo. She saw an attractive man lift his hand in a gesture of greeting. Flushing, she raised her fan and turned away. “Bryn! He smiled at me!”
Unaccountably jealous, Bryn was relieved when the door to the box swung open to admit Claude and Lacey. A servant followed with a tray, glasses, and a silver bucket holding a chilled bottle of champagne.
It was like a small private party, Clare thought, witnessed by hundreds of strangers. Robert Lacey greeted her warmly and complimented her lavishly until the earl pulled him aside. She couldn’t help but eavesdrop, and her heart sank when Bryn asked how soon Clouds would be ready. Not yet, she wanted to beg.
The other man, rather short and pudgy, lowered himself onto the chair vacated by the earl. “May I join you without an introduction?” he asked with a sweet smile. “They forget I’m around. Claude Howitt, ma’am, at your service.”
“Clare Easton,” she said, drawn to him immediately. “Are you enjoying the opera?”
“Been asleep the past half hour,” he confessed. “Alice would like it, but she won’t come. We live all the way to Richmond, and she’d have to stay in the city overnight.”
“Your wife does not care for London?” Clare asked, startled when he flushed beet red. “Oh, dear. Have I said something wrong?”
“Not at all,” he assured her. “We are wed in our hearts and in the sight of God, I do believe, but Alice ain’t m’legal wife. My father won’t approve the marriage because he thinks her too common, and I can’t support her if he cuts me off. Devilish thing, but there it is. We have three children and another on the way. Hope I haven’t shocked you, Miss Easton.”
“I am scarcely in a position to be shocked,” she observed dryly.
“Things are not always as we want them to be,” he said with a nod, “but they can change. Bryn lets me manage some of his investments and gives me a generous percentage of the profits. More than he ought. One day I’ll have enough cached away to do without my allowance, and then Alice can come to the opera as m’wife. Hope she don’t make me come with her,” he added forlornly.
She laughed.
At the sound, Bryn turned to her and caught a look of genuine affection on her face, directed at Claude. He clenched his fists. Why was it Clare responded that way to his friends and not to him? Was it because he would bed her and they would not? Or did she truly dislike him?
“Sunday,” he snapped at Lacey. “Have Clouds ready by then or answer to me.”
CLARE CHUCKLED when the rotund tenor practically fell over his own feet in the sword fight, but she marveled at his last aria and seemed wholly enchanted by the second half of the opera. Bryn watched her every move, delighting in the play of emotion over her expressive face. He ushered her from the box just before the final chorus, anxious to get on with his plans for the evening. Although he would not bed her tonight, it was past time for a little dalliance.
As they came into the foyer, joining the scatter of men and women leaving early to avoid the crush, he became aware of a disturbance near the door.
“There you are, Caradoc,” a man bellowed. “Been waitin’ for you.”
An elderly couple was shoved aside and Bryn saw Giles Landry stumbling in his direction. Swiftly, he moved Clare behind him.
“S-swine.” Landry hiccuped. “Four nights ago you raised h-hopes in m’daughter’s heart. Danced a waltz with her, you did. Saw it m’self. Not the thing to sport your whore in public after that. Ought to call you out.”
Bryn drew back as the man’s rancid breath assailed him. “You’re drunk, Landry.”
“Not so foxed I can’t recognize a philanderer. It’s one thing to take a mistress when your wife is breeding, but until then have the decency, b’God, to show my sweet Elizabeth some respect.”
“I am not wed to your daughter,” Bryn said coldly, “nor promised to her. Now get out of here before I lose my temper.”
“You’re promised, all right,” Landry slurred. A cluster of people gathered around them, avidly observing the confrontation. “Everybody who saw you at L-Lady Wetherford’s ball knows that. I expect to hear your offer in the morning, Caradoc.”
With one hand, the earl gripped Landry’s neckcloth and lifted him onto his toes. “Get this straight, fool. I’ll meet you with pistols or swords after a sober challenge, but take yourself out of here now or I’ll pound you into sausage.”
“Come along, Giles.” A tall man with bronzed skin and tawny hair emerged from the crowd. “I’ll take you home.” Seizing the baron’s elbow, he propelled him toward the door.
Bryn watched them disappear, wondering who the man was. Impressive, at any rate. Releasing a small sigh, he turned to Clare. “I am very sorry about this, my dear. Landry is in his cups and speaking nonsense.”
Clare took his arm. “It seems the theatrics are not confined to the stage this evening,” she said calmly. “Shall we go?”
“Well done,” he said, leading her past the gawking observers to the corner where his carriage waited.
WHEN THEY DREW up a few streets from Ernestine’s house, he looked out the window and swore softly. “Jenkins is late with the unmarked coach, I’m afraid. It seems we must wait awhile.”
With a delicate shrug, she leaned back against the squabs. “The opera was lovely, Bryn. I only wish I spoke Italian so I could understand the words.”
He drew the velvet curtains and snuffed the lanterns, plunging them into darkness. “We’ll talk about the opera tomorrow, Clare.” Before she could think to resist, he lifted her onto his lap. “For now, let us take advantage of a few minutes alone.”
The sound she made was indeterminate, like a low moan.
He tilted her chin with one finger. “Don’t worry, princess, I will not make love to you tonight. Only a few kisses.” He felt a shot of pain when her taut body relaxed. How she dreaded the consummation he so hungered for. “Have you ever kissed a man?”
“N-no.”
He’d assumed that from her naïveté, but was wildly relieved to hear her confirm it. He wanted to be first with Clare, in every way. His erection pressed against her hip, and he wondered if she felt it or understood its significance. He could not tell, she was so still. In the black silence, he lowered his head and brushed her cheek with his lips. It was hot, and he knew she was blushing fiercely. Tenderly, he moved to her lips. They were cold as ice. “Clare,�
�� he murmured, “please. Let me.”
She held his shoulders in a death grip. “Let you what? I don’t know what to do.”
“Trust me. Come with me. Go soft wherever I touch you.” He clasped her neck and lowered his mouth again. This time he could feel her trying not to fight him as he kissed her for a long time. His lips caressed her chin, her cheeks, her closed eyelids, the delicate lobe of her ear, and finally the corner of her lips. When his tongue sought entrance they parted—in surprise, he knew—but he seized the advantage. For only a moment he touched her closed teeth and then nibbled at her lower lip. “Open your mouth,” he said huskily. “Do it, Clare.”
With a tiny sigh, she obeyed.
Her mouth tasted of champagne and honey, more sweet than he’d ever dreamed. After a while her arms reached around him, her fingers pressing into his back through the heavy cape and coat and silk shirt. Through all the layers of fabric, he felt her hands as if they were on fire. Hungrily, he sought her tongue, promising her delights she had never experienced with the anxious thrusting of his own.
Bryn’s mind struggled to control his body, but everything of him that was rational surrendered to everything that was male. His hand reached under her cape, molding a full, firm breast, and then moved inside her bodice to fondle her warm flesh. When his thumb stroked her nipple, he felt it harden.
“Ah, Clare,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck as he tugged her dress down to free her breasts. They were full and lush, fitting perfectly when he cradled them in his hands. He lowered his head to tease a nipple with his tongue, rubbing his hardened sex against her soft bottom.
Then, to his horror, someone rapped on the carriage door. Hastily, he moved to shield Clare from the intruder.
“Sorry, m’lord,” came a familiar voice. “I’m a bit early.”
Behind him, Bryn felt Clare adjusting her clothes. Damn Jenkins, who was not supposed to arrive for another half hour.
