by Cheryl Holt
It was those vows, he suspected.
There was a resonance in those vows, spoken in the church before his brother, and the vicar, and God—if He’d been listening—that had disturbed him very much. She was his, and he’d bound himself to her, and more and more he found himself delighted for it to be the case.
It was strange. It was riveting. It was even a tad terrifying, but so far it had been grand, and he was starting to wonder if it might always be grand.
“Would you cease daydreaming and get on with it?” she scolded. “If you don’t hurry, I’m likely to topple over.”
“I’ll never let you fall.”
“You can’t watch me every second.”
“I can try.”
“Not when you’re woolgathering.”
“You’re very insolent when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not insolent, and I’m not drunk.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I’m…happy.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
He buried himself against her belly and took a soft bite of her skin, which made her squeal and laugh.
“Are you sure you’re Clarissa Harlow? Did I bring the wrong woman home with me? I could have sworn you said you’d never be happy with me and that I’d ruined your life.”
“Oh, that.” She waved away her prior complaints. “I was an idiot.”
“Yes, you were.”
“You don’t have to always agree with me.”
“I’m trying to be a supportive husband.”
“By telling me I was an idiot?”
“Well, you were.”
“You are the worst, Matthew.”
“I know.”
“But I’m very glad you’re mine.” She bent down so they were nose to nose. “Now then, will you remove my stockings or must I do it myself?”
“The hell with it,” he mumbled.
He stood, picked up her, and carried her out to the bed. He dropped her onto the mattress and followed her down. On being so close to her, he was overwhelmed, as if his senses were on high alert. He could smell her and feel her body’s heat. She was like a disease in his blood, like a buzzing gnat he couldn’t ignore.
He thought about her constantly. When he was with her, he acted like a besotted boy, eager to sit and gape at her like a halfwit. When he was away from her, he merely moped and worried about where she was, what she was doing, and if she might be missing him too.
He had to control his emotions. He never let sentiment rule him, and for a man in his position, who thrived on battles and fighting, he couldn’t afford to be overly attached.
He had to simply revel in the occasions he could arrange to be with her. He had to be grateful she would give him the hearth and home he’d always craved. As to heightened sentiment, it was for poets and fools, and he wouldn’t succumb to such stupidity.
“My stockings are still on my feet,” she said.
“I’ll get them off of you, my pretty. Just you wait.”
He kissed her for a bit, then nibbled a trail down her chest, her stomach, to the vee at her thighs. He kissed her there too, through the fabric of her drawers, receiving plenty of oohs and aahs as he teased her with what was to come.
He untied her garter, rolled the stocking down an inch or two, then nuzzled at her leg until she was giggling and begging him to hurry. But he didn’t hurry. He took his time, stripping her as slowly as he could manage.
It was an eternity before he had her naked, and she was relaxed and lazily sprawled beneath him. Her limbs were rubbery, her mood mellowed and serene from the champagne, from his physical ministrations.
When he finally tugged off his shirt, when he finally opened his trousers, she was ready for him. She held him close as he made love to her, and he did make love to her. There was no other way to describe it.
As with his disrobing her, he took his time, savoring and pleasing her, exulting in her beauty, in her cheery personality and calm demeanor. He was so contented around her, so relieved that he’d picked her. Where would it lead? He couldn’t begin to guess. Hopefully to a long life filled with happiness and joy.
He gently guided her to the peak and down, and as he spilled himself against her womb, he felt such a sense of completion. Had she bewitched him? He frequently wondered if he was under her spell. How could he break it? Why would he want to break it?
“I’m so glad I married you,” he said.
“Are you?”
“Yes, I’m very glad.”
“We’ll be fine together, won’t we?” she inquired.
“Are you joking? We’ll be perfect.”
“Yes, I think you could be right.”
“I could be right? Mrs. Harlow, I’m your husband, and I’m telling you it will be perfect.”
“Then who am I to disagree?”
“Precisely.”
He chuckled and slid away from her, and he rolled her onto her side so he could spoon himself to her back. They were quiet, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her thigh.
“Are you smiling?” she asked him.
“Yes.”
“So am I.”
“Good.”
“Don’t ever stop.”
“I never will.”
She sighed with what definitely sounded like satisfaction, and so did he.
* * * *
Clarissa carefully turned over so she was facing her husband. He’d dozed off, and she didn’t want to wake him. She liked to study him when he didn’t know that she was. He looked much younger when he was sleeping, less troubled and imperious. The mask he usually kept in place was tucked away, allowing her to see hints of the man he was deep down, the man he hid from the world.
He was dreaming, and she prayed it wasn’t about the ship or the fire—the nightmares that continually plagued him.
Clearly as a tiny boy he’d suffered painful events. What had they been? How could she find out? She thought—if she could uncover the details, if she could fill in the blanks for him—some of his anguish might wane.
Lady Run was searching for a brother, and she seemed to suppose Matthew could be that brother. What if he was? Clarissa grinned, contemplating how marvelous it would be for him to locate his family.
Suddenly he tensed and scowled, mumbling an angry, indecipherable comment, and she nestled herself to him, her hand over his heart.
“Ssh,” she murmured, “it’s all right.”
At her soft assurance, he relaxed.
She hadn’t wanted to wed him, and she’d convinced herself that she’d done it for Roland and Angela. But she hadn’t done it for them. She’d done it for herself, to protect herself, to provide security for the future. It was the reason all women married, but an even more important reason was slowly becoming obvious.
She suspected she was in love with him. She’d never admit it to anyone, but if it wasn’t love, what was it? She’d had limited experiences with men, her neighbor years earlier who’d begged her to travel to India being her sole chance at amour. So she wasn’t certain she’d recognize the signs.
He was kind and generous. He made her laugh and feel special. When she was away from him, she worried about him constantly, wondering where he was, what he was doing, and if he might be worrying about her too.
Was that love?
They’d known each other a few weeks and had been wed a few days. Could love bloom so rapidly? The poets insisted it could, but Clarissa had never believed it. She’d assumed it was an emotion that developed from lengthy acquaintance, from shared endeavor and mutual respect. She’d never assumed it could strike immediately and powerfully, like lightning. Had it struck her?
They’d been in London for two days, and he created a stir wherever he went. Even out at rural Greystone they’d heard about him, but she hadn’t comprehended how admired he was out in the wider world. He was lauded everywhere, his name bandied on every tongue. If they rode down the street, people stopped and stared, they applauded and reached out
to him as if he was a religious saint.
Though he was incredibly vain, and she’d have predicted he’d revel in the approbation, he ignored it all, seeming greatly embarrassed by the fawning crowds. Instead he’d expended all his energy in making sure she was happy, that she was being treated like a queen. While every person in London was focused on him, he was focused on her.
There was no more magnificent gift he could have bestowed. He eagerly introduced her as his wife, was proud to have her standing by his side, and she couldn’t get over how odd it was to have him fussing and spoiling her.
From the very first, she’d deemed him to be arrogantly blind to others, yet gradually she was accepting that he’d married her—as he kept claiming—because he’d wanted her to be his bride. It was a spectacular notion that left her breathless with joy.
He’d wanted her! Her, Clarissa Merrick Harlow, who’d never been wanted by anyone, who’d never had her own place or family. She had him now, and maybe he’d grow to love her as she was growing to love him. She wouldn’t count on it and wouldn’t expect it to occur, so she wouldn’t be disappointed if it didn’t.
But what if…
Very quietly, she mouthed, “I love you.”
She’d never said the words before, and she liked how they sounded, so she whispered them again.
“I love you. Thank you for choosing me.”
He smiled in his sleep and pulled her close.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Aren’t you glad I convinced you to marry the Captain?”
Clarissa glanced over at Edwina. “You convinced me? Is that how it happened?”
“Yes. Don’t you recall? You were scared stiff, and I told you to latch onto him before some other woman did.”
Clarissa chuckled. “Yes, it was your sage advice that pushed me into it, but we shouldn’t forget Roland and Angela begging me to proceed. Their entreaties had a bit of an effect.”
“Have you figured out what they want? They always have an ulterior motive.”
“For Angela, I truly believe she was terrified about having nowhere to go. She wants to stay at Greystone, and she assumes I’ll let her.”
“Will you?”
“So long as she doesn’t annoy me too much.”
“What about Roland?”
“I suppose he imagines—with me as mistress of Greystone—he’ll be able to keep his fingers in the pie at the estate.”
“Would he be that brazen?”
“Yes, but the Captain is very shrewd, so Roland will never have a chance to pressure me. If he tries, I’ll simply tell my husband and that will put an end to it.”
They were in London, in a fitting room at Madame LaFarge’s shop. She was London’s most acclaimed dressmaker, and earlier that morning, Matthew had delivered Clarissa and Eddie into the woman’s competent hands.
Matthew had previously conferred with the older woman as to what Clarissa needed and the amount he would spend, so Clarissa had no idea how much it was. She would have liked to inquire for she was certain it was much too high.
Madame LaFarge had an extensive list of every item a wealthy lady should possess: day and evening dresses, riding habits, nightwear, and all the matching shawls, cloaks, and other accoutrements that would give Clarissa a polished air. Madame also had her favorite merchants for shoes, hats, and gloves, and they were expecting Clarissa to visit.
Matthew had selected the fabrics Madame should use, and they were rich and luxurious in color and texture and had to have cost a fortune. Clarissa yearned to protest the extravagance. Considering her quiet life in the country, she had so few occasions to don lavish attire.
Then again, since arriving in town she’d received many indications as to how her status had been elevated by marrying him. He couldn’t have a wife standing next to him who was dowdy and drab.
“What do you think?” Clarissa asked Eddie, as she twirled in front of a mirror in a sapphire ball gown.
“You’re gorgeous, and Captain Harlow was a genius to have picked you.”
“A genius?” Clarissa laughed. “I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.”
Matthew’s ceremony was the following night. Clarissa couldn’t attend looking like a washerwoman, and Madame had saved Clarissa, offering her a garment that she’d been sewing for someone else. Clarissa was too nervous about the ball to have refused the gesture, and she understood too that the Madame was eager to be able to brag over how she’d specifically helped the Captain’s new bride.
The notion made Clarissa smile. She liked to know that a hero could still exist in such a modern day and age, that he’d been recognized and praised for his actions. She would always be grateful that he’d singled her out.
Madame LaFarge bustled in. She was petite, severe, French, with a no nonsense attitude.
“It is perfect, non?” she asked.
“It is perfect, yes,” Clarissa replied.
“We’ll finish it, and I shall send it to you.”
“Thank you.”
“I will include a fan, shawl, and the feathers for your hair.”
“Feathers!”
“Have you a maid who can style your hair?”
“Not really,” Clarissa admitted.
“I will have an assistant stop by tomorrow afternoon at four.”
“You’re very kind.”
Upon her arrival, Clarissa had learned not to disagree with the imposing woman. Matthew had instructed LaFarge to ignore any complaints from Clarissa about profligacy or excess, so it was pointless to argue.
“You will purchase shoes?” Madame asked.
“Yes, as soon as we leave here.”
“Bon, bon.”
Madame hurried out, taking Edwina with her to discuss fabric choices for the dresses Matthew was buying her. Clarissa stayed in the fitting room, and several shop girls rushed in to remove the delicate gown. It was pinned in many places and tricky to get it off without tearing the seams.
Shortly she was attired in her own clothes and tying her bonnet when two women walked down the hall and stepped into the adjacent room.
“She can’t help but worry,” one woman said.
“Of course she can’t,” the other woman concurred. “Can you blame her? Every female in London is hoping to attach herself to Captain Harlow. Would you let him out of your sight?”
Clarissa bit down a gasp. She was anxious to tiptoe out, but the fitting rooms were separated only by curtains, and she was terrified they would see her.
“When he left without her for that estate—what was it called, Greystone?—she nearly had an apoplexy.”
“I would have too. There was no reason she couldn’t have gone with him.”
“That’s what she told him, a dozen times over. He insisted she could join him after he was situated, but he never sent for her.”
“And knowing Penelope, she’ll have invented a hundred horrid scenarios as to why. They all involve him setting her aside for another.”
“Who could be more beautiful than her?”
“Or more corrupt and dissolute. With her having such loose tendencies, I can’t fathom why he bothers with her.”
“It’s the loose tendencies. What man wouldn’t leap at the chance to ally himself with a trollop like that?”
“The Captain is such a handsome rogue, and his acclaim has spread far and wide. Everyone will have heard of him, even in the smallest corner of dreary old England.”
“So the country ladies will be after him too.”
“Penelope is afraid he’s found a lonely widow to entertain him. She’s positive that’s why he hasn’t come back.”
“A widow! Are you joking? More likely, it’s some fresh-faced vicar’s daughter, who’s all innocent and pretty. You know how libertines like their little virgins.”
They snickered, and Clarissa wanted a hole to open and swallow her.
“Penelope managed to trap him in her net because she’s a doxy, but will she be able to keep him? That’s the question.�
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“Is she still expecting he’ll marry her?”
“Penelope has been absolutely mum on the subject.”
“What about the house he rented for her? Is she still living in it?”
“For now.”
They snickered again.
“The award ceremony is tomorrow night. Is he taking her as his guest?”
“He hasn’t said, but I guess he’s meeting her tomorrow afternoon. I suppose we’ll know more after he’s left.”
“How rude of him to delay. How is she to know if she’ll attend or not?”
“She’ll definitely be there—whether it’s on his arm or not.”
“What if he brings someone besides Penelope? Wouldn’t you love to be there to watch the fireworks?”
“It would be too, too delicious.”
“Penelope is so overly dramatic. She’s just the type who’d make a huge scene.”
Suddenly Madame hustled down the hall, summoning her assistants into the women’s fitting room. All discussion of Clarissa’s husband ended, and they began chattering in French, with Clarissa remembering enough of her school lessons to know they were talking about new gowns.
Clarissa was so distressed she wasn’t certain she could walk out on her own. The foundation of her world seemed to have shifted, the floor looking crooked and uneven.
Who was Penelope? What was she to Matthew? Clearly they were romantically involved. Were they carnally involved as well? They must be. Were they affianced? Had Matthew promised marriage to her? Apparently they were sufficiently close that Penelope had intended to travel to Greystone with him.
If he’d bound himself to Penelope in some fashion, how could he have blithely wed Clarissa? What sort of man acted that way? Had he a moral code or not?
And what about Clarissa? What was she to think? If Penelope was a paramour, or worse, a jilted fiancée, Clarissa would die a thousand humiliating deaths. People in London knew the Captain. They would gossip about Clarissa, would tell stories and make up lies. They’d say she’d won the Captain under false pretenses, that she’d tricked or inveigled him into matrimony, and just from imagining the tales that would spread, she was dizzy and nauseous.
