Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance)

by Wendy Lacapra

  The effect was pleasant. Too pleasant.

  She feared an altogether different kind of seduction had begun.

  The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a white stone manor house built in the shape of a U. Tall, wide windows presided over an immaculate inner courtyard. A small staff lined the entrance, prepared to be introduced and to collect the visitors’ luggage.

  Markham stood by the door, hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing black trousers and a brown coat. His hair had been neatly trimmed and his cheeks freshly shaved. His green waistcoat matched the color of his eyes.

  Impressive…though she preferred the tightly fitted buckskin.

  He smiled, and those blasted dimples dented his cheeks. Only this time they left a warm, pleasant feeling in her heart.

  She was in trouble. Dire trouble.

  He made introductions, and it was obvious a respectful ease existed among himself and the staff. He pressed his hand against the small of her back as their party moved into the hall. Reluctantly, she removed the armor of her coat and hat.

  Unlike the Bromton Castle of her youth, Southford was not a house of refinement. Nor was the manor simply cold, like her own drafty, cavernous home. Southford was warm. Bright. Welcoming.

  Like a young lover eager to please.

  How had Katherine gone from this to Bromton Castle?

  Clarissa glanced askance at her friend.

  Kathrine and Bromton were speaking with the butler. Katherine glanced up at her husband, wrinkled up her nose, and laughed.

  Ugh. Love. Such an affliction.

  Love was why Katherine had left. Even after nearly two years, she beamed with sentiment, carried it around on full display as if her supply would never run thin.

  How short Katherine’s memory.

  Lord and Lady Bromton were happy now, but things hadn’t been so easy when they had first wed. Clarissa remembered, even if Katherine forgot.

  On the other hand, if Katherine had remained at Southford, eventually she would have been cast aside. No matter how much she’d put into the estate, it belonged to Markham and, eventually, to Markham’s son.

  Her stomach fluttered.

  Markham’s son.

  She pictured a spirited lad with dark red hair, easy dimples, an infectious laugh, and a mother who…

  And a mother who…

  Clarissa blinked.

  And a mother who would not be her.

  “Refreshments await.” Markham indicated that they should proceed through a set of large, arched doors. “Come into the library.”

  Katherine hesitated, exchanging a strained glance with her husband.

  “Don’t worry.” Markham took his sister by the hand. “I’ve changed a few things.”

  “What?” Katherine exclaimed.

  “What?” Julia echoed, skidding across the entry hall. “You have changed it!” She frowned back at Markham. “How could you?”

  “So we can make happier memories?” he suggested. “The view was always Katherine’s favorite part. That hasn’t changed.”

  Julia darted over to the shelves, inspecting the leather-bound book spines. She placed her hand over her heart. “Well,” she exhaled. “Thank heaven you haven’t changed the books. You, brother dear, have saved yourself a good scolding.”

  He smirked. “Allow me to direct your attention to the pianoforte. Katherine, how much time do you think Julia should devote to practice each day?”

  “Ha,” Julia responded, turning back to her books. “I’m a diamond of the first water. I practice when I please, now.”

  “Oh?” Markham cocked a brow.

  “You couldn’t make me if you—” Julia yelped as he lifted her off the ground.

  He carried her over to the instrument and set her down.

  Julia squinted at the sheet music. “Oh!” she turned the page. “Queen Mary’s Lamentation! And—” She clamped her hand over her mouth and laughed.

  Markham backed away from the pianoforte. “I thought you might be more inclined to practice with lines like, I burn with contempt for my foes.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” Katherine threaded an arm around her brother’s waist. “But the room looks lovely, and I appreciate your—oh my goodness!” She dropped her arm. “You didn’t!”

  Clarissa followed Katherine’s gaze to the mantel over the fireplace. An entire fleet of child’s wooden toy ships had been mounted to a wall.

  “It took me a full week of diving,” Markham said. “But I believe I rescued them all.”

  “All that, just to needle me?” Katherine groaned. “Can’t you ever be serious, Percy?”

  “My authority is a matter of great seriousness,” he said with exaggerated gravitas.

  Katherine snorted, and then they both laughed.

  “Actually,” he continued, “I had to have the pond deepened in order to complete the drainage project we planned—which, by the way, is working beautifully. We had a deluge a few weeks past and every single bridge held.”

  Katherine embraced her brother with both arms. “It’s good to be home.”

  “It’s good to have you home.”

  A suspicious sheen filled his eyes, a sheen that panged in Clarissa’s heart.

  “Katherine,” Bromton interrupted, “may I suggest we take that walk in the garden you promised?”

  Katherine nodded. “Just as soon as I get Clarissa settled.”

  “I’ll show Clarissa her rooms,” Julia volunteered. “You two, go.”

  “I’ve had the housekeeper prepare the blue room,” Markham said. “I can handle these things, you know.”

  Julia placed her hands on her hips. “Markham, you may have arranged everything, but you showing Clarissa to her room would be entirely improper. Even I know that much!”

  Katherine paused at the door and glanced back over her shoulder. “Are you sure you two will be all right?”

  “We’re fine,” Markham and Julia answered in unison.

  “Until later,” Bromton said.

  Markham waved them away. “Why don’t we all go up together?”

  “We can’t,” Julia replied. “I’m sure our clothes aren’t unpacked yet. We wouldn’t wish to be in the way.”

  “Wouldn’t we?” Markham asked.

  Julia poured two glasses of sherry. “Here.” She passed one to Clarissa and one to Markham. “You two drink these. I’ll go find out when we can settle in.”

  Markham twisted his lips as Julia skipped out of the room. “I daresay she’s up to something.”

  “No doubt.” Clarissa lifted her sherry. “To Southford.”

  Markham’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “To Southford.” He took a draught. “Do you like what you’ve seen so far?”

  Yes. She lifted her brows. “Well, there appears to be a great many sheep.”

  “Come spring, there will be a great many more. They multiply like rab—” He stopped abruptly and blushed.

  “Markham…we have to talk.”

  His expression grew guarded.

  “I think I know what you’re trying to do, and, you must know that I cannot—”

  “Please.” He looked down into his empty glass. “Not yet.”

  She lowered her voice. “I—I just don’t want you to think I’m going to change my mind.” She bit her lips to keep it from trembling. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

  “The fortnight we planned…that’s all I ask.”

  She may have been able to refuse, but for the downward glance. And his awkward foot shuffle.

  “The fortnight,” she answered. “On one condition.”

  “Yes?” he glanced up, hopeful.

  “No kissing.”

  “No kissing,” he repeated. His gaze lingered on hers as if he wanted to say something more.

  Julia whistled loudly as she returned down the stairs.

  “Be off,” Julia flicked her wrist at Markham. “The rooms are unpacked. And, Clarissa would like to rest, I’m sure.”

  “Ye
s, of course.” Markham bowed his head. “I’ll be here. I’ve some receipts to look over. But if you need anything…” He sighed. “Well, you know.”

  “Go. Go.” Julia put her hands on her hips. “Go to your receipts, or your books, or whatever it is you mean to do.”

  Julia pulled Clarissa out into the hall and then led her up the stairs.

  “Now,” Julia began. “Markham may have thought the blue room could be prepared in time, but he was mistaken. The housekeeper told me the guest room is absolutely at sixes and sevens.”

  Clarissa stilled. “Couldn’t she have informed Markham?”

  “Oh, she did. She told him they’d caught bats. But he didn’t respond with the appropriate concern.”

  “A trapped bat is far from uncommon.”

  “Not a bat,” Julia said with a slight shake of her head. “An entire colony. In the chimney.” She pulled Clarissa up the stairs. “Imagine that.”

  “Yes,” Clarissa agreed wryly. “Imagine.”

  “So, we have two options. You can stay with me, or,” she disappeared inside the second door off the landing, “you can stay in here.”

  More curious than anything, Clarissa followed Julia inside.

  “Good gracious!”

  Unlike the rest of the cozy, warmly decorated home, this room was grand. Gilded, in fact. Gold mirrors stretched from floor to ceiling in French Court style and everything gleamed with an almost outrageous opulence.

  “My great grandmother was French,” Julia explained. “My mother visited Versailles as a little girl and my father built her this room to bring back happy memories of her family.”

  “That sounds…very thoughtful.” And somehow sad.

  “He built her a folly, too. A miniature Grecian temple at the top of the hill. But you’ve seen the view, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” Clarissa replied. “I’ve seen the view—in paint.”

  Julia nodded. “Katherine’s sitting room.”

  Clarissa picked up a golden hairbrush.

  Her mother had died when she was still in the cradle. By the time she’d grown old enough to recall, every trace of her had been removed. She knew almost nothing other than her family name—local gentry. Respectable, but hardly dynastic.

  She’d always imagined that her father had made some financial settlement with her mother’s family. He was an earl from an ancient family, but what woman would wish to be installed in a dark, drafty house with a humorless man who found anything feminine suspicious?

  Markham’s father, on the other hand, had clearly adored his wife.

  “I don’t have any memory of my mother.” She replaced the hairbrush. “Do you?”

  Julia shook her head no. “I was five when she died, and she was sick for some time. I’ve no memories of my own. The odd thing is, when Markham and Katherine recall Father, they describe him in exactly the same way. But when they tell stories about my mother,” Julia shrugged, “it’s as if they knew two completely different people.”

  “Julia…” she interrupted. She did not want to know more. What difference would it make? “You know I cannot stay in this room.”

  “Why not?” Julia opened a dressing room door. “Your things have already been unpacked. You know I kick because we shared a room last night. Naturally, you cannot share with Katherine or—heaven forbid—Markham.”

  Clarissa pointed to the third and final door in the room. “I assume that door connects to Markham’s bedchamber?”

  “Of course,” Julia replied cheerfully. “But you cannot be seriously worried about that. There’s a bolt.” She slipped the bolt into place. “You see? Problem solved. And don’t you worry. Markham likes to go about naked, but he would never leave his bedchamber that way.”

  “Even so I… What did you just say?”

  “Markham lounges about his bedchamber bare as the day he was born.” Julia shivered with exaggerated revulsion. “Not that I’ve ever seen him in the state. But Katherine walked in on him once.” She tapped the bolt. “You just keep this closed, and you’ll be fine. Well now,” Julia hastened back to the door to the landing. “I’ll leave you to settle in.”

  Clarissa twirled around. “Julia, wait—”

  The door closed firmly in her face.

  She frowned down at the door handle. She should not stay in this room.

  She glanced back to the bolt, wondering if it had a twin on the other side.

  Not that she was going to check.

  Naked? Bare as the day he was born?

  They’d rather skipped his disrobing, hadn’t they? Which seemed unfair.

  Extremely unfair.

  She kneaded the tightness in her neck as she wandered over to the window and dropped into an overstuffed chair. She placed her forehead against the glass, suddenly tired. Down below, the formal gardens were gradually succumbing to the season.

  Crimson fabric flashed from within the shrubbery. Clarissa narrowed her eyes. Katherine had been wearing red, had she not? Sure enough, a moment later, a dark head popped from between the branches, and an auburn one quickly followed.

  Oh my.

  Had the serious, once imperious Marquess of Bromton been up to something illicit beneath the cover of Southford’s bushes?

  Clearly, the estate made everyone go mad.

  And she’d agreed to stay here for two whole weeks.

  In a room next to Markham.

  Naked Markham.

  Not kissing.

  …

  Markham marched into his bedchamber, a stewing mess of fear and want and self-castigation.

  I think I know what you’re trying to do…

  Of course, Clarissa would immediately perceive—and reject—his intent. How had he ever thought otherwise?

  He closed and then locked his door.

  Why should Clarissa welcome a real courtship?

  He loosened the buttons on his breeches, pulled his shirt over his head, and then stepped out of his falls. Fully nude, he rolled his neck until a slight crack eased the relentless pressure.

  When Farring had suggested he invite Clarissa to Southford, his intentions, and the anticipated consequences, had seemed so obvious, so right, as if his doubts and hers would tumble one after another like dominoes placed in a row.

  But what had his plan been, really? That, although Clarissa could not fall for him, she’d fall for Southford?

  He rubbed his forehead.

  Clarissa Laithe wasn’t about to fall for him—or his estate—even if he had fallen for Clarissa.

  And he had.

  Devil take it—he had.

  Despite her brother’s disdain, despite the inherent risks in joining the Rayne and Stanley families, and despite the only insurmountable obstacle—Clarissa’s objection to the very idea of marriage—he’d lost his heart…and his mind.

  Or perhaps he’d lost it long ago. Perhaps when provoking her scowls, he’d been simply hungry for her notice—good or bad.

  He wanted her—her attention, her scowls, her kisses, her commands. He wanted to wink at her across ballrooms and courtyards—even a dining hall table full of their children—and feel that lift in his heart when she responded with her slight, secret smile.

  He wanted her for life.

  Whereas she was reluctant to agree to a mere fourteen days.

  He went over to a cabinet, poured himself a measure of cognac, and threw back the entire glass. His lips flattened as he stared at the empty cup.

  Had he gone entirely Philistine?

  Cognac was to be properly savored until the liquor’s rich pepper smoothness quietly suffused his limbs with languid peace.

  He never drank to excess.

  Drunkenness was rakish.

  You require direction…strict guidance…rigorous supervision.

  He threw himself down on the bed. The empty glass rolled out of his hand.

  If he closed his eyes, he could see her straddling him as she had in London—heat in her eyes, demand in her touch. He did not close his eyes.
Instead, he groaned.

  Madness, madness, madness.

  But would he go back?

  If he could, would he rend the fabric of time and return to the garden gate and refuse to open the door? Or, even further back than that…to that first night he’d seen her. If he had known how he’d feel right now, would he have turned away sooner? Would he have refused to even take a look?

  He sucked in his lips, running his tongue along the edge and savoring the lingering taste of spice.

  Such thoughts were a waste. He couldn’t go back. His choices—some deliberate, some by default—had brought him here. Here, where he was burdened by the knowledge he’d deceived himself into believing that by bringing Clarissa to Southford he could change her mind about marriage.

  Change her mind with what? Sheep?

  Perhaps Clarissa was wise to keep her distance.

  His father, despite loving his mother to distraction, had been unable to make her happy here.

  A kiss for courage.

  He frowned.

  And what was the courage his mother had needed? The courage to simply rise from the bed. Which, in the end, she hadn’t done very often at all.

  Through Clarissa’s eyes, Southford was probably just a rustic little estate in a rural county with few rarified gentry and no entertainment beyond those amusements that involved “taking air.”

  Just because he’d come to love the place, to see himself as servant and steward of the land, didn’t mean the potential was obvious to anyone else. Nor would she be able to see just how much of himself he’d given to his home.

  He’d not yet been a man when he’d inherited. Until he came of age, some of his decisions had even required the approval of his trustees—the rector and the rector’s brother, who was an earl. Still, illness and death had catapulted him from an annoying brother to Head of the Household.

  And along with the estate, he’d inherited debt—so much debt.

  A pound note, ten, even a hundred, those could be managed with economy, adjustments.

  But five thousand pounds?

  Five thousand. A hundred thousand. It wouldn’t have mattered. After his father’s death, he couldn’t imagine ever having the means to pay.

  And he wouldn’t have. Not without the guidance of the rector, Katherine’s careful management, and later, Bromton’s investment advice coupled with Lady Constance’s connection to the banks—though, ironically enough—the chair of one very successful bank had been the now-deceased Mr. Sartin.