by Lynn Kerstan
She gazed out the window at the placid sheep grazing beyond the whitethorn hedgerows. Perhaps one day she would have a peaceful life in the country, raising chickens and doing piecework for a village dressmaker to support herself. For most of her life that had been her dream, but now it seemed strangely uninviting. Positively dull, after Bryn.
She could hardly wait to see him again.
From now on, she would do everything in her power to please him. So long as he wanted her, or until he married, she would be the best mistress he ever had. That much, at least, she owed him, and it was all she had to give.
How to go about it was another question, but she was no longer reluctant or afraid to become his lover. Not altogether, anyway.
Deliberately, she set aside her fears. Bryn had, without knowing it, provided Joseph and Jeremy with an education, security, and a future. In return, she would devote herself to repaying the debt.
THE NEXT MORNING, a letter arrived from Hampshire. Bryn would return to London late Thursday afternoon and wished to escort her to the opera that evening.
A peek into the larger bedroom confirmed that the bed had been delivered while she was gone. No mirrors, she saw, except the one over the dressing table. And no platform either. Only a lovely room, done up in shades of blue, cream, and yellow, with an enormous canopied bed draped with billowy curtains.
Attila wound around her legs, rubbing his nose against her ankles. She picked him up and hugged the kitten to her breast. Tomorrow night she would sleep with Bryn in that bed.
It was time.
18
Clare was different.
Bryn saw that immediately, although he wasn’t sure what had changed. Lovely as always, her hair caught up in a loose knot on top of her head, she greeted him with a sweet smile when he came into the salon at Clouds.
Gaze fixed on her face, he bowed and kissed her gloved hand. “I was bereft without you,” he said.
“You were gone only three days,” she replied with a laugh. “But I missed you too.”
She meant it, he could tell. His heart jumped to his throat. The apprehension he always sensed in her was absent. Clare was truly glad to see him. It showed in her eyes, for once unclouded with fear of what he might demand of her.
His shoulders and back, tense since he made up his mind to bed her tonight, relaxed. There would be no struggle and no resistance from her. She was ready as well.
Probably because the bed had been delivered, he reflected cynically. When he returned from his trip to Hampshire with Max Peyton, he found a message from Lacey assuring him everything was fitted out at Clouds. Clare understood she had no further excuse for delay.
But she didn’t seem to mind. At the least, she would lie without reluctance in his arms. He was afraid to hope for more than that.
“I have another present for you,” he confessed, wondering why that made him feel guilty. “Jewels again, I’m afraid.”
“I shan’t like them so much as the kitten,” she warned. “Attila is shut away, if you are concerned about an imminent attack.”
“That rotter had better get used to me, because I expect to spend a lot of time here.” He opened the silver box and held it out for her inspection. “Sapphires, Clare. I’m glad you wore blue tonight. The necklace will suit that gown.”
She fingered the stones, set in gold, and turned around so he could fasten the clasp. “Thank you, Bryn. It’s lovely.”
Unable to resist, he placed a light kiss at her nape. To his astonishment, she leaned back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist and they stood for a moment in silent communion. She smelled of lavender. He breathed deeply, savoring the fragrance and the softness of her body. Most of all, her surprising willingness to be held in his embrace.
Yes, they would make love tonight. They both knew it.
Almost, he was tempted to take her upstairs straightaway. But he stepped back and combed his fingers through his hair. “We’ll hear my favorite opera tonight, princess. I have always loved Mozart.”
“Then I shall love him too.” She touched his cheek with one finger. “You have given me music, Bryn. I prize that gift above sapphires and gold. Perhaps even more than kittens.”
Flushing, he moved toward the door. “I need to speak with Mrs. Beales for a moment.”
“Be careful then. Attila is in the kitchen.”
THIS TIME THEY went to King’s Theatre. The box was smaller, if no less prominent, than the one at the Opera House, and once again Bryn had timed their arrival to coincide with the overture. He moved his chair closer to hers so their thighs almost touched. Expecting her to draw away, he was surprised when she moved closer still.
Music flooded the theater—glorious music. It pulsed in his veins as he studied her profile in the glow cast from the stage. He knew Don Giovanni well and had no need to look at the singers. It was more delicious by far to trace the emotions they portrayed by watching Clare’s response.
Enraptured, he thought, all of them. The performers by their art, Clare by the opera, and he at the fantasy of what would happen in a few hours.
Even through the fabric of his pantaloons and the velvet of her gown, he imagined he could feel her bare leg against his own. Now and again, after a particularly splendid aria, she turned to smile at him while the audience applauded.
They shared a bottle of champagne at the interval, discussing the opera while their gazes met in a wholly different conversation. For once, Clare seemed oblivious to the attention focused on them by the curious crowd.
They existed in a world of their own, a world awash in music and the anticipation of passion. The astonishing intimacy between them was staggering to Bryn, painfully accustomed to the distance she had always maintained … until tonight. What had happened, in the three days he was gone, to so change her?
He thought about that as the curtains opened again. Was she rewarding him for taking up Peyton’s scheme? She had told him not to do that for her sake, but he had. Without question Clare was the real reason he had agreed to it. He needed her approval. He wanted her to see him as something other than a selfish, lust-driven aristocrat who thought he could buy anything—or anyone—because he was rich and titled.
A lump congealed in his throat. He was selfish and lustful, to support a charity only to prove he was otherwise. Clare would see through that immediately. She’d end up not liking him any more than he liked himself at this moment.
Clare’s hand reached out and he took it in his own, infinitely grateful for the slight reassurance. It occurred to him that she couldn’t yet know about his arrangement with Peyton. Not a reward, then, this sudden tenderness. A bribe, perhaps? She was aware he was considering the endeavor. Did she hope to entice him into sanctity?
Mind spinning, he clutched her hand tightly and stared at the stage, seeing nothing. Clare was a vast mystery to him. He didn’t understand her at all. And if he kept trying to analyze her motives, he’d only succeed in driving her away again.
For now she wanted him, or was willing to accept him for reasons of her own. He should be grateful, and he was. The rest could wait. Tonight he would make love to her, and tomorrow he would try again to figure out what he must do to make her happy.
And when he knew, he would give it to her.
IN THE CARRIAGE they sat close together, and his tentative kisses deepened as she welcomed them. When they arrived at Clouds there was no question that he would go upstairs with her.
A quick glance assured him that Mrs. Beales had followed his instructions. The counterpane was turned back on the bed, and he saw the edges of towels laid across the sheets to absorb Clare’s virgin bleeding.
God but he was nervous. He went immediately to the table, where a decanter of wine stood beside two glasses, and poured himself a hefty draught while Clare shed her cape and hung it in the armoire.
“Would you rather I wait downstairs while you change?” he asked, past a constricted throat.
She cast him an unreadable smi
le. “I should like a glass of wine, Bryn. And I will require help with the buttons on my dress.”
He filled another glass but left it on the table while he hurried to undo her gown. Halfway there he remembered her wine and returned to the table, emptying his own glass before offering Clare her drink.
Her eyes lit with amusement. “One would almost think you the virgin here tonight, my lord. Do relax.”
He slumped onto a chair. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve never—that is, I’m usually in control but … oh, hell!”
Laughing, she poured him another glass of wine, which he seized gratefully. Then she tugged a small hassock to the chair. “Put your legs up,” she invited. “I’ll sit on your lap.”
Soon she was nestled there, her legs on the padded armrest by his side, her back against his uplifted knees. He caught his breath.
She touched her glass lightly to his. “To our first night together.”
He watched her drink, unable to move as her words sank in. “Our first night, Clare?” he asked warily. “Does that mean you expect there will be others?”
She looked puzzled. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“God, yes. But our agreement was only that you would consider staying. I thought you intended to decide … later.”
“You mean after you’ve bedded me?” She brushed a swatch of hair from his eyes. “Good heavens, how awkward that would be. As if I were passing judgment on what happens tonight. Unless I am mistaken, that is unlikely to be altogether pleasant. But it will not affect my decision. I plan to stay, assuming you are not terribly disappointed with me.”
He felt the band of thorns, which had been wrapped around his heart since he first met her, slowly unwind and dissolve, leaving a great peace within him. As much as he had longed for their first night together, he had feared the day after, tormented by visions of waking up to find her gone.
Always, he’d been shadowed by the awareness that he bought her for only one night of reluctant compliance. Now she gave him a gift he had not dared to imagine. He wanted to tell her that, but the words froze in his throat. If she knew how much it mattered to him, she might feel entrapped. Above all things, he wanted Clare to understand that she was free to go or choose to stay of her own accord.
Without doubt, he had lost his mind. Any man with sense would keep this woman by whatever devious means it required.
He gazed at her in silence for a long time, unsure what to say next. “I could never be disappointed with you,” he finally managed between dry lips. “But I am greatly afraid you will not feel the same about me after your first experience. Do you know what to expect tonight?”
“More or less.” She shrugged lightly. “I was raised in the country and have seen livestock mate.”
He choked on a swallow of wine. “We are not cattle, my dear. Animals couple by instinct, and only when the female is ready to breed. Men and women come together for altogether different reasons. Some of the time, anyway. Be assured that producing offspring is not why I want to make love to you.”
She grinned. “I rather assumed that, after Mrs. Beales taught me any number of ways to prevent it.” Her eyes clouded. “I have taken the herbal drink faithfully, every day, but if you want me to make use of the sponges, I’ll need to—”
“Hush. I told you I would take care of this in my own way. Don’t give it another thought. But if you have questions, I shall be glad to answer them.”
Nodding, she leaned back against his knees. “Actually, I do. Will you stay when you are done, or leave?”
Heat rose to his cheeks. “Does that matter?”
“I only wondered. If you stay the night, should I wake you up in the morning or let you sleep? And will you want breakfast? Because if you do, I should write a note for Mrs. Beales.”
He regarded her with awe. “What the hell difference does all that make? I thought you would be concerned about … more intimate subjects.”
“Not at all,” she assured him. “You have those well in hand, and I have only to follow your lead and do what you tell me. It’s the other details I’m worried about. The protocol for mistresses, if you will.”
“Protocol?” His astounded expression caused her to chuckle. “Listen to me, Clare. There is no book of etiquette for lovers. We shall find our way together. And if I have certain expectations beyond our time in bed, they can wait. Yes, I want to stay here tonight. No, don’t wake me up in the morning. Unless you want to, of course. Only, be there in my arms when you do.
“Please,” he added, after a moment.
“Anything you want, Bryn.” She took the empty glass from his hand. “Would you like more?”
“Not wine,” he said softly. “More of you.”
She bent over and set both glasses on the floor. Then, to his amazement, she wrapped her arms around his back and kissed him, her mouth open to his immediate response.
He tasted the sweet claret on her tongue and the yielding of her body. But after a long while, drugged with her kisses, he became aware she had no real desire for him. No passion. She was willing but not eager.
Take what you can, he thought. Remember that she is a virgin. This is all new for her. And she is trying.
But he could not help himself. “You don’t really want to do this. Tell me the truth, Clare. You don’t really want me.”
A tense pause. Finally, “I’m not at all sure what I feel right now. But if it matters, I am glad it’s you, Bryn.” Her gaze lifted. “More than I can say, I’m glad it’s you.”
He let go a deep sigh. That ought to be enough. Certainly it was more than he had expected of their first night. And, like her, he was not sure of his own emotions. His past experiences with virgin mistresses had not prepared him for this woman. Feelings, other than sexual desire, had never been involved when he bedded any one of them. Not ever.
Now a riot of feelings hammered at him like the heels of the flamenco dancers he’d watched in Spain. He felt the rap of castanets, the soul-deep rhythm of passion thrumming in his veins.
Putting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her slightly and began to unloose the buttons on her dress. “Trust me,” he breathed against the soft skin of her back. “Let this be good.” His hands reached to cradle her breasts, warm and full under the soft fabric of her chemise.
Clare leaned against his chest with a wondering sigh of pleasure when his thumbs brushed her nipples.
“Take down your hair,” he whispered.
She obeyed, fumbling with the pins while he continued to stroke her. When the hair cascaded over her shoulders, he helped her slip her arms from the sleeves of her dress and lowered it to her waist. Then he combed his fingers gently through her hair, parting it to kiss her nape.
“Will you come to bed with me now?” he said in a husky voice.
Nodding, she stood, the velvet gown pooling on the floor at her feet as she began to strip off her long gloves. She felt his gaze burning into her and heard him come to his feet. Again he lifted the hair from her neck, his fingers warm as they unclasped her necklace.
She stepped away from the dress, clad only in a nearly transparent chemise and stockings, and turned to face him. “Shall I undress you, Bryn?”
He swallowed. “Some other time, perhaps. One day you will understand what your touch does to me. For now, better we go slowly. And you must tell me if there is something I can do to make this easier for you.”
She glanced around the brightly lit room. “Might we extinguish the lamps? Not if you don’t want to,” she added quickly.
“All but one,” he conceded with a smile. “Just so I don’t trip over something. I will take care of it. Anything else?”
She shook her head. “You must tell me what I can do to please you.”
“I hope to show you, butterfly. And nothing will happen until you are ready.”
Putting her hands on his shoulders, she stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss on his lips. “I am not afraid, or reluctant in any way. Please don’t
worry about me. Tonight is for you.”
“For us,” he corrected, with a smile that touched her heart.
While he lit two candles on the dressing table and extinguished the other lights, she peeled off her stockings and climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged with the counterpane drawn to her waist. The soft padding of towels beneath her hips was a stark reminder of the pain and bleeding to come. Closing her eyes, she listened to the sounds of Bryn undressing.
She had told him the truth, or part of it. She was not afraid of anything that would happen to her body tonight. But the sin. Oh, God, the sin of lying with him for money, no love between them, no vows to sanction what they did together. Every time she thought she had buried her guilt, it sprang up like a dusky angel at her shoulder, warning her of the consequences.
Her soul would be lost.
She had accepted that. But while there was still time to change her mind, she fought the temptation to virtue.
For Bryn, she thought with grim determination. For everything he had unwittingly done for Joseph and Jeremy, and for his kindness to her. Tonight she would think only of him, and give as much of herself as she could bear to relinquish. He would neither know nor care if she withheld pleasure from herself, in the hope of repentance and forgiveness in the future.
Sometimes even that seemed beyond her strength. Whenever he took her into his arms and kissed her, she wanted him to do more. Soon, he would. All she had to do was stop herself from wanting it.
“Clare?”
Her eyes flew open.
He stood by the bed, his naked body gilded with candlelight. The soft glow illuminated his broad shoulders and narrow waist and, most of all, the long thick phallus lifting from a shadowy place between his legs.
She gulped.
HOURS LATER, CLARE lay cradled in Bryn’s arms with her head on his shoulder, listening to the soft rumble in his throat as he slept, reflecting on what had happened between them.
