“What did your father do?”
“He laughed.” A barely perceptible tremor raced through Claredon’s elegant form. “In his opinion, the local women were there for his amusement, and my mother was being overly sensitive to be hurt by his infidelities. He said that he loved his wife, but no gentleman could be expected to remain faithful.”
Victoria was shocked in spite of herself. Her own father had adored her mother. There had never been the slightest hint he would ever desire another. And, in truth, her mother was precisely the sort of woman who would have greeted her errant husband at the door with a heavy vase upside his head, rather than tears.
“But you did not believe him,” she said, with more than a hint of satisfaction.
He smiled wryly at her less than subtle disgust toward Lord Moreland. “No. I called him an unfeeling lout and promptly bloodied his nose.”
“Good heavens.”
“It took a while to mend our estrangement. In fact, it was only the realization that my anger toward Father was deeply distressing my mother that forced me to put aside our differences.”
Victoria gave a shake of her head, not at all certain she could have been so gracious in a similar situation. No doubt it was best for the family not to have Claredon and his father at odds, but it would not be easy to turn a blind eye to such betrayal. “Your mother sounds like a very wonderful and brave woman,” she said softly.
He abruptly turned to face her, his features softening with undeniable love for his mother. “She is, indeed. Although she had eight children to raise, she always managed to make each of us feel special.”
“And shamelessly spoiled you,” she teased.
He gave a sudden laugh. “But of course. Tell me of your parents.”
Caught off guard by his sudden request, Victoria gave a shake of her head. “There is little to tell. We lived quietly at our estate. My father was a farmer at heart, and my mother possessed little interest in Society. I do remember that they always seemed to be a great deal in love. Every morning my father would awaken my mother with a newly bloomed rose.”
“Ah, a romantic,” he retorted.
A reminiscent smile curved her lips at the memory of her father’s gentle nature and love of books. “Yes, I believe he was.”
His gaze swept over her countenance, lingering for a disturbing moment upon her lips. “And you hoped someday to marry a gentleman as devoted as your father?”
Although it had never been a conscious thought, she realized now that she had indeed harbored a deep hope she would one day be as loved as her mother had been. How would it feel to have a gentleman gaze at her with wonder? To treat her as if she were a rare gift he could never quite believe he had won?
The knowledge she would never know made a faint ache open in her heart. “I suppose,” she said slowly.
As if sensing her sudden cloud of regret, Claredon reached over to slowly stroke her cheek. “I am sorry, Victoria.”
She glanced at him in surprise. “Why?”
He heaved a sigh. “You are a woman who deserves a gentleman you can truly love. A marriage of convenience will never satisfy you.”
She gave a restless shrug, not wishing to dwell upon the future. It made her long for things she could never possess.
“As Vicar Humbly says, we are not always given the paths we would chose,” she said in attempt at forbearance. Her fate had been decided, and all she could do was make the best of it.
Claredon gave a rueful grimace. “Ah, yes. I received a similar sermon.”
Victoria determinedly put on a brave face. “And I cannot wholly deny that our unfortunate incident did rescue me from marriage to Thomas.”
“There is that,” he murmured. Then, without warning, he pulled his horse to a sudden halt and glanced about him.
Instantly on alert, Victoria regarded him with alarm. “What is it?”
“I had almost forgotten,” he retorted with a mysterious smile. “I have something I wish you to see.”
“Here?”
Slipping off his horse, Claredon tossed the reins over a nearby branch. Then, approaching her, he held up his arms to offer her assistance. “Come along, Victoria. You can trust me.”
* * *
For a moment Victoria gazed down at his waiting arms.
You can trust me . . .
Claredon was uncertain why he had uttered the words, but now he discovered himself holding his breath as she wavered between retreating behind her fierce walls of protection and allowing herself to accept what he wished to offer.
Suddenly he realized this moment was about more than simply helping her dismount. It was a turning point in their relationship. She could either push him away or dare to allow him closer.
Thick silence seemed to surround them as Victoria briefly glanced about the trees that isolated them from the rest of the world. Then, just when he feared she was about to demand they continue on to inspect the land, she gave a hesitant nod. “Very well.”
Feeling a rush of jubilation, Claredon wrapped his hands about her tiny waist and swung her to the ground.
The tantalizing scent of lilacs briefly teased at his nose as he reluctantly loosened his hold and turned about to lead her off the path. The feel of her beneath his fingers had suddenly wakened the ever ready desire that he had stoically buried during the past week. He could not help but wonder if he wasn’t making a mistake. Having her alone was perhaps not the wisest choice, if the merest touch could make his stomach clench with fierce, burning need.
With an effort, Claredon shook his head and continued toward the large tree that lay straight ahead. He had waited a week to spend just a few moments with his wife. He wasn’t about to ruin their precious time together because he was consumed by lust.
He was not his father.
Halting beneath the wide, spreading branches of the tree, he reached up to grasp one of the lower limbs and, with the ease of years of practice, swung himself upward.
Below him, he heard Victoria give a startled gasp. “Claredon, what are you doing?”
“Just wait a moment,” he urged, swiftly using the branches to climb ever upward.
“Good heavens, you are going to break your neck!”
He chuckled as he reached the large wooden planks that surrounded a perfect cottage hidden in the thick foliage.
“I am not yet so old I cannot climb a tree or two,” he complained, walking over the wooden floor to collect the ladder lying beside the door to the cottage. Moving toward the edge, he began to lower it downward. “Stand back. I am going to give you some help.” Feeling the ladder hit the ground below, he carefully held onto the top rung. “Can you climb up?”
“I am not yet so old that I cannot climb a ladder.” She threw his words back at him in tart tones.
Knowing it would help that she had on her habit, Claredon still peered anxiously downward as he spotted her pale champagne bonnet peeking through the leaves. “Be careful.”
“Really, Claredon ...” She began to protest, only to have her words stolen as she climbed past the boards and spotted the pretty house set in the bower of limbs. “Oh, what is this?”
Pulling her onto the boards, Claredon regarded her with a teasing smile. “Until my grandfather’s death, we lived at this estate. The house was not all that large, and with seven older sisters my father realized I needed a place to escape from their constant mothering. He had this secretly built so that I could hide when it became unbearable.”
Her brows lifted. “Your own private cottage?”
“Believe me, with seven sisters it was more a necessity than an extravagance,” he assured her, turning to run his hand over the top of one windowsill. “Now, where did I . . . ah, here it is.”
Taking the key he had just located, Claredon swiftly unlocked the door and opened it so that he could usher Victoria inside. With a faint grimace at the smell of neglected dust and disuse that filled the shadowed air, he glanced about the single room that had been such a wonderful par
t of his childhood.
In one corner were the wide sofa and chair that had been taken from the attics of Longmeade, along with a writing desk where he had spent endless hours writing wretchedly horrid poetry. Closer to the window was a telescope he had used to survey the land below when he was pretending to be a pirate protecting his stash of treasure. It was all fairly rustic when seen through the eyes of an adult, but when he was younger it was a haven beyond measure.
“This is your hideaway?” Victoria demanded as she gazed about the cramped room.
“I fear it has been sadly neglected,” he apologized as he noted the cobwebs that glittered in the streaming sunlight.
She flashed him a wry smile as she moved toward the center of the barren floor. “I would say that it was in better condition than most cottages in England.”
Hearing a faint creak, Claredon frowned as he hurried forward. “Do not move until I have ensured that the boards are still steady,” he commanded, gingerly pacing back and forth across the room until he was certain none of the boards had rotted during his long absence. “They seem secure enough,” he at last conceded.
Obviously curious to discover more of his nefarious childhood, Victoria strolled aimlessly toward the writing desk. “Your sisters never discovered your secret?”
“Never,” he said, recalling the elaborate means he would use to throw off anyone who might be following him before ever approaching his secret cottage. “Not even my mother knew of it.”
“What would you do here?”
Claredon felt a faint hint of embarrassment at discussing his youthful fantasies. “When I was younger, I would pretend I was a pirate and this was my ship, or that I was knight in his castle.”
Thankfully, her smile held nothing but a sweet teasing at his confession. “How very dashing.”
He waggled his brows in a wicked manner. “Oh, I assure you I was quite dashing.”
“And when you were older?”
He gave a faint grimace as he moved to join her at the writing table. Once again, he was dangerously aware of the heat and tempting scent of her skin. The urge to reach out and touch her was nearly unbearable. “I am not certain I wish to confess,” he murmured, barely paying heed to his offhand words until she abruptly stiffened.
“I suppose you used it to seduce all the local maids,” she said in unnaturally brittle tones.
He abruptly frowned, oddly hurt by her swift assumption he devoted all his time to seducing women. Ridiculous, of course. Why wouldn’t she suspect the worst? He had spent far too much time in the pursuit of pleasure.
But he discovered he did not want his wife thinking of him as a lecherous rogue. He wanted her trust. Her belief that he would never harm her. “You could not be more wrong, Victoria,” he said in tones more sharp than he intended. “I assure you that I have never seduced any woman here.”
She abruptly flushed with embarrassment. “Oh.”
Ruing the sudden discord between them, Claredon reached down to pull the top of the writing desk upward, and collected the large sheaf of papers that had been hidden inside. Not giving himself time for second thoughts, he abruptly shoved them into Victoria’s hands. “Here.”
Startled by his sudden movements, she regarded him with wide eyes. “What are these?”
His lips twisted with wry humor. “The shockingly odious poetry I use to write when I was a young man.”
She regarded him for a long moment before at last lowering her head to read through the scribbled lines upon the pages.
Claredon found himself barely resisting the urge to turn away as she read through the very private outpouring of emotions that he had placed on the paper.
Being young and foolish, he had not attempted to hide his deep yearning for true love, nor his innocent belief in a maiden who would fill his life with joy.
It seemed an eternity before she slowly lifted her head to regard him with glowing eyes. His heart tripped as she reached out to lightly touch his arm. “Claredon ... these are beautiful.”
A ridiculous sense of pleasure washed through him even as he gave an embarrassed shake of his head. “Good lord, they are ghastly.”
Her hand tightened upon his arm as she moved close enough for his body to tingle with sudden anticipation. Dear heavens, he had made love to her a hundred times in his dreams and now she was so near, and they were so alone ....
He shuddered as he battled his inner demons.
“I like them very much, Claredon,” she was saying softly. “Why did you stop writing?”
He forced himself to shrug. “I had no desire to become a rather poor imitation of Byron. One melancholy poet in Society is quite enough.”
She refused to be put off by his dismissive tone, that familiar stubborn expression descending upon her lovely features. “You should have them published.”
“No. Absolutely not,” he retorted, firmly taking the papers from her hands and tossing them back in the writing desk. “To be honest, I never expected to share them with anyone.”
“Why?” she persisted.
He heaved a rueful sigh. “I suppose it is rather like baring one’s soul. It is an uncomfortable feeling.”
Her expression slowly softened at his words, a rather wistful smile touching her lips. “I am glad that you shared them with me.”
Unable to resist temptation any longer, Claredon carefully reached up to cup her cheek. “You are my wife. There should be nothing we cannot share with one another,” he said, his fingers savoring the satin softness of her skin. A near painful ache clenched his stomach. Not just the all too familiar pang of desire, he acknowledged as he gazed deeply into her wide eyes, but a lingering wound of loneliness far more potent than mere lust. He had missed being with this woman. Missed teasing her and seeing the flash of her eyes and the smelling the scent of her skin. “Victoria...” he breathed.
As if sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere, she regarded him warily. “Yes?”
“I have longed to kiss you,” he said simply.
There was a startled silence as she gave a faint tremble. “Oh.”
Encouraged that she had not instantly retreated from his advance, Claredon cupped her chin with gentle fingers. “May I hold you in my arms?”
He knew he was taking a risk by leaving the choice open to her. It would have been far easier to simply sweep her into his arms and make love to her until she could no longer tell him no. Without arrogance, he knew he could seduce this stubborn woman. But he had made his decision. He wanted her to come to him freely, without regrets.
Her breath quickened, and Claredon feared that he had gambled and lost. Then, with a sweet hesitancy, she gave a nod of her head. “Yes.”
Perhaps absurdly, Claredon felt as nervous as a schoolboy as he removed her bonnet and tenderly wrapped his arms about her to pull her close to the hardness of his frame. He gave a low groan as her soft curves pressed to his body, her hair tickling his nose in a delicious manner. That ache within became a pulsing need that made his knees tremble.
“You feel so perfect,” he muttered, burying his face in her fiery curls. “As if you were made to fit against me.”
She shivered as his hands moved urgently down her spine, gently pressing her closer to his tightened thighs. “Perhaps you were made to fit against me,” she teased in a satisfyingly breathless voice.
He closed his eyes to allow the sheer joy of holding her close to rush through him. “I can think of no better reason to be born.”
Almost tentatively, her hands lifted to lie against the width of his chest. Claredon caught his breath at her innocent caress.
“Claredon . . .” she whispered in low tones.
“Yes, my love?”
Her head tilted back to regard him with dark, bemused eyes. “I . . .”
“Tell me, Victoria,” he urged, feeling as if he were standing on a precipice that might very well destroy him if he took a misstep. “What do you want?”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “I do no
t know.”
Realizing she was simply too shy to put into words the sensations that were making her shiver with longing, Claredon carefully swept her into his arms and, tossing aside the Holland cover upon the sofa, gently laid her upon the cushions.
Looking down upon her vulnerable expression, he felt his heart turn over in his chest. She looked so utterly sweet with her hair billowed about her pale countenance and her eyes dark with desire. He so desperately wanted to please her. Not only in a physical sense, but as her husband. To become the man she could one day love.
“Victoria,” he breathed in low tones. “I desire you very much, but I will not pressure you to offer more than you are prepared to give.” He paused as he searched her face. “Do you trust me?”
Slowly, astonishingly, she lifted her arms in welcome. “Yes, Claredon. I trust you.”
Twelve
Victoria felt . . . what?
Alive, certainly.
Fulfilled.
Utterly safe.
And oddly smug.
Lying in the circle of Claredon’s arms, Victoria snuggled close to his warmth. She had expected to enjoy the pleasure of her husband’s possession. Despite her refusal to give in to temptation, she had known deep within her that she desired Claredon. And the mere fact that she had far too often dreamed of this precise moment revealed her inner wish to discover the full wonder of his lovemaking.
What she hadn’t expected was the sheer intensity of the sensations that had rushed through her, or the ready manner in which Claredon revealed his own potent need. More than once, he had lost his famed expertise and fumbled in haste, making her feel beautiful and sinfully sensuous. She had opened herself, making herself wholly vulnerable, but the knowledge that Claredon had done the same gave her a sense of power she had never thought to experience.
A shiver raced through her as Claredon stroked his lips over the tender skin of her temple. “This was not how I intended this to be,” he murmured with rueful humor.
Feeling more confident than she had in her entire life, Victoria turned her head to meet his narrowed gaze. “You have regrets?”
Love and Marriage Page 49
