The Proper Wife

by Julia Justiss

  She was galloping on Diablo, faster, faster, approaching some distant obstacle. She could feel a tension mounting in her body like that of her horse as he gathered himself for the jump, her muscles locking, pressure spiraling tighter and tighter to an almost unendurable peak, and then…

  Air. Cold, vacant air when abruptly the colonel staggered away from her, nearly unbalancing them both as he set her back on her feet.

  No! she wanted to scream. He couldn’t stop—not now, not with her heart thundering in her chest, her breath coming in gasps, not when she was so close to reaching that elusive something toward which every nerve and muscle strained. She’d…she’d kill him if he stopped now!

  It appeared murder would be required, for to her anguish and fury, the colonel continued to retreat. Shaking, gasping, hands trembling and apparently as unsteady on his feet as she, but definitely backing away.

  Could she have gathered breath enough she would certainly have screamed then, except she heard it. Faintly at first, and then with increasing volume as her roaring pulse slowly quieted, unstopping her ears.

  “Clarissa? Are you in the garden, dear? Clarissa?”

  Mama. Had the colonel heard her too? Was that why he’d left her so suddenly, bereft and demented with need?

  His face unreadable, he was staring at her, shaky fingers fumbling with his flattened cravat. Staring at the naked breast still outlined by her straining bodice.

  With a muttered oath she jerked the material back up to cover herself, a suffusion of hot embarrassment replacing the cooling embers of desire.

  Thank heavens Mama never proceeded beyond the terrace. Readjusting her neckline, which was now stretched sadly out of shape, she snatched the jacket off the bench and pulled it on. As she re-looped the buttons, she took a ragged breath and called to her mother.

  Her second attempt produced sound. “H-here, Mama. I’m coming.”

  Refusing to glance at the colonel—or worry what havoc he’d wreaked on her hair or face, she stalked down the path back to the terrace.

  She’d at least got her breathing under control by the time she reached her mother. Before she could turn to introduce the colonel, who’d followed silently in her wake, Lady Sandiford’s brow creased in concern.

  “Are you all right, dear? Your color is alarmingly high.”

  If she could have done so undetected, she would have kicked the colonel with the hard heel of her riding boot. “The, ah, sun is rather hot in the back garden, Mama. Let me introduce Colonel Lord Sandiford, lately of the Tenth Hussars and recently returned to London.”

  “The handsome young soldier you were describing to me in such glowing terms the other night? Then I’m—”

  “No, Mama, that was someone else.”

  Her expression puzzled, Lady Beaumont nonetheless extended a hand to be kissed. “Charmed, Colonel.”

  “Madam,” he replied shortly, and bowed.

  Leaving her remark unexplained, Clarissa fell silent. She absolutely would not look at the colonel.

  Lady Beaumont’s eyes, slightly myopic without the spectacles she was still too vain to wear except in the privacy of her room, attempted to focus on him. “Yes, it must be warm, Clarissa. The colonel is looking alarmingly flushed as well. Come, let us get out of the sun. Won’t you join us for some refreshment, Colonel? I’m sure Cook could have some lemonade made up in a trice.”

  “Very kind, ma’am, but I…I have business elsewhere. Another time, perhaps. I must bid you ladies goodbye.”

  Another time? After that—Clarissa couldn’t think what to call the interlude in the garden—he thought he could just walk out without a word?

  Not in this life. Pasting on a smile for Mama’s benefit, she grabbed the colonel’s arm. “I’ll see him out, Mama. Would you have Timms, ah, check with Stebbins in the stables to see if Diablo is all right? I believe he may have strained a hock on his gallop this morning.”

  “Yes, dear. I’ll order lemonade, too. So cooling. It’s quite dangerous to get overheated, you know.”

  Oh, she knew. Was the colonel already regretting the rash passion he’d encouraged her to display, had succumbed to himself? The thought was almost unendurable. However, having cleverly cleared the front hallway of attendants, she intended to find out before she’d allow the colonel to make his escape.

  But when they reached the entry he forestalled her, holding up a hand. “Please, let me speak, Miss Beaumont. Our behavior—” his eyes dropped to her bodice and she could almost feel her breast once more bare beneath his gaze, “—ah, that is, my behavior in the garden was reprehensible. I…I simply can’t find words to excuse it.”

  He held himself as stiffly upright as an outraged spinster kissed under the mistletoe by the neighborhood lecher. The regret she’d dreaded to see was painted plainly on his face, shaded by…disgust? Though he’d disdained and disapproved of her before, somehow this time the distaste cut right to the quick.

  Pain spiraled deep, and without even thinking, she reached out to him. He recoiled. He desired her, his accusing eyes said, but only as he would any other wanton. In the ashes of passion, he abhorred her touch, this supposed lady who’d shown herself every bit the whore the clubmen claimed.

  Something small, frail and helpless deep within her bled. And as always, she found refuge in anger. Had she a small-sword, she could have run him through on the spot.

  “No need to apologize,” she said through clenched teeth. “After all, I practically begged for what I got, didn’t I? But there is a silver lining to this rather tawdry episode. Just think how amused all your fine friends at White’s will be as you describe how Miss Beaumont moaned and writhed under your hands. You should be able to dine out on the story for weeks.”

  His face went white, and for a moment she thought he would strike her. Instead, he turned on his heel, stalked out the door and closed it with a slam.

  Well, she’d told him. Lips trembling, hands beginning to shake, she knew she’d never make it through a pleasant morning chat with her mama, not when her world had just shattered into irreparable fragments in front of her eyes.

  His white-faced fury spoke more eloquently than any words. He despised her for breaking his control and himself for succumbing. If he never saw her again, it would be too soon.

  For her as well. How could she see him and not remember the feel of his lips, his hands. In spite of his disapproval and disgust, she knew to her shame she would only want to feel them again, longer, harder. Writhing with frustration and fury, she gathered her skirts and ran up the stairs to her room.

  Then stopped with horror inside the door as she caught sight of her reflection in the pier glass. Her lips were reddened and swollen, her cheek chafed where the scrape of his beard must have rubbed it. Rosy blotches decorated her neck, and the loops on her jacket were done up wrong.

  For a silent moment she blessed her mama’s deteriorating eyesight and the servants’ discretion. Then she fell on her bed and wept.

  Considering he’d left the Beaumont townhouse in a daze of fury so impenetrable as to be almost a stupor, it was something of a miracle that he ended up a short time later at the mews behind his Audley Street rooms. Thank Heaven Valiant knew where his oats were kept.

  Too bad Sinjin hadn’t been as wise in knowing where to keep himself. He wouldn’t then have had to endure a wounding reminder of the frequent hospitality poverty compelled him to accept, or worse—the jibe that he had so little honor he would first compromise a lady and then boast of it at Whites. That comment had so incensed him that he’d nearly been induced, for the first time in his life, to strike a woman.

  Not that he hadn’t deserved a stinging rebuke. Even now, he had difficulty imagining how he could have been so lost to all sense of decorum, propriety and sense as to have almost ravished a woman in full daylight in her back garden, with servants, tradesmen and her own mother but a few steps away.

  Knowing the effect she had on his senses, he should never have come back with her from the park
. Certainly he ought to have avoided that secluded back garden. He’d been lost the moment his boot trod the first stone.

  How was it that she managed time and again to bewitch him, he the most dispassionate and rational of men?

  Ah, but how marvelous the fall had been. Close his eyes and he could savor again the taste of her passion-dewed skin, thrill to a response so heady he’d been driven nearly to frenzy. Just the thought of how she’d ignited in his arms set his pulses hammering while the tightness of his breeches reminded him of the sudden, unwelcome termination of that delicious journey of exploration.

  Thank Heaven the acute senses he’d sharpened over six years of campaigning hadn’t failed him, even if sense and reason had. If he’d not been distracted by the soft pad of Lady Beaumont’s leather slippers on the brick terrace, heaven knows what unpardonable sin he’d have committed.

  Having been moments from disaster should prove a signal lesson. In future, he would steer well clear of the dangerously alluring Miss Beaumont.

  He was halfway up the stairs, congratulating himself on that impossibly narrow escape, when the unpalatable truth slammed into him like an incoming French twenty-pounder.

  Whether or not Lady Beaumont had discovered them in the garden didn’t matter. Miss Beaumont wasn’t a discreet, willing widow, though she’d certainly been willing enough, nor a camp follower, nor a Society wife of compliant virtue. She was an unmarried young woman of quality. And what he had done with her in the garden had, for a man of honor, irretrievably compromised her.

  For which offense there was only one remedy. He would have to marry her. Whether she wanted him or not.

  He staggered into his rooms, fumbled some brandy in a glass and downed it in one gulp. Making his way to the wing chair by the fireplace, he sank into it and put his aching head into his hands.

  How had he stumbled into such folly?

  Yes, there was enough fire between them to set off a regiment of musketry, but to make a marriage work required so much more. After the tumult of war, he wanted serenity in a life’s companion, not constant alarms, comfort rather than confrontation. He required a partner with the skill and desire to help him rebuild the wreckage of his estate, not an unpredictable, irresponsible, town-bred flirt who’d sulk in the country and drive him mad flirting with everything in pants back in town. He didn’t want a wife with a pack of courtiers attached.

  He’d better get used to it, though. There was no way to avoid marrying her without ignoring his duty and forfeiting his honor. Which, of course, was unthinkable.

  As he proceeded to empty the brandy decanter, he considered the implications. Miss Beaumont was rich, thank heavens. He’d really be in a pickle if he’d blundered into compromising a penniless young lady. And marriage would free him to indulge all the passion he’d been riding on so tight a check-rein practically from the moment he saw her.

  Once again a vision of the perfect, beautiful breast she’d bared to him in the sunlight recurred, fogging his brain and swamping him in heat. Having her ravishing, responsive body beside him, under him for the rest of his life would be sweet recompense indeed.

  There were others. She was gallant, courageous and honest—all rather rare qualities in a woman. She’d neither whined nor complained on several occasions when many would have done both.

  And she certainly didn’t bore him. He recalled that mad gallop through the park and his lips curled into a smile. No, life with Clarissa Beaumont would be anything but dull.

  Her quick, demanding wit would keep his mind sharp. She might kick at being dragged to the country, but if he could persuade her to it, she would probably be a hard and tireless worker. She certainly threw herself passionately into whatever she began.

  Remembering her reaction to his initiatives in the garden, his smile broadened. He had a few ideas on how to go about persuading her.

  And hadn’t he felt, almost from the beginning, this deep sense of comradeship, almost the sort of bond fellow soldiers share? He’d probably have to be ever on the lookout to restrain her madder impulses, and keep a loaded pistol to discourage the scores of men foolish enough to consider making a cuckold of him, but all things considered, perhaps this marriage wouldn’t be such a disaster after all.

  Disaster or not, neither of them could escape it now. Though he expected Miss Beaumont would try.

  Indeed, tendering her a proposal of marriage at this tardy moment was probably going to be rather hazardous. Miss Beaumont had been furious with him when he left, which was no less than he deserved. After his unforgivable treatment of her, the longer he waited to make a declaration he should have offered her on the spot, the angrier she would have reason to become.

  Glancing at the mantel clock, he ran a hand over his cheek, noting the rough feel of the stubble there. He’d best shave again, then dig out his regimentals, and for the first time in his life, go deliver a proposal.

  Two hours later, gold polished, boots shined to such a gloss he could see himself in them, Sinjin presented himself at Miss Beaumont’s door. When Timms indicated that neither of the Beaumont ladies were in to callers, he informed the butler he had no intention of leaving until he saw Miss Beaumont. Ordering the man to show him to a room and bring wine, with a grin Sinjin followed the disgruntled servant into the parlor.

  He didn’t think he’d have to wait long. His Miss Beaumont wasn’t the coy sort to sulk and delay. No, she’d probably be only too willing to seize another opportunity to flay his hide with the whip of her tongue.

  Imagining other things he’d teach that tongue to do provided pleasant occupation. As expected, he was very soon interrupted.

  His whole body tensed with anticipation as he heard her quick, light step approach. His eyes on her as she entered, he barely heard the butler announce her. The breath he’d been holding eased out in relief, however, when he noted she did not bring a trail of chaperones in her wake. He relaxed even further after she ordered Timms to withdraw and leave them alone.

  So she was expecting his proposal and did not intend to fight him. Everything, Sinjin thought with a grin, was going to be fine.

  Slowly he raised satisfied eyes from her delectably heaving bosom (ah, soon to be fully explored!) to her kiss-bruised lips (his lips now, to kiss and kiss again) to her stormy eyes—and his jocular mood faltered. Miss Beaumont’s lovely green eyes were sheened with tears.

  Remorse struck him. Of course, after he stomped out without so much as a word, she must have thought the worst, that he had used her abominably and did not intend to make it right. Without even thinking he reached out to touch her cheek. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  She batted his hand away. “Say what you came to say and be gone.” Crossing her arms, she averted her face.

  She’d not taken a chair, nor had she invited him to do so. Did one go down on one knee in front of a standing maiden?

  Arms crossed over her chest, trying hard to draw in even breaths, no easy task when one’s lungs felt as if squeezed in a vice, Clarissa stood and waited. She’d been sorely tempted to let the arrogant colonel idle downstairs till he rotted, but by now she knew the wretch was as stubborn as she. The blasted man would probably sit in her parlor until doomsday.

  Only the certain knowledge that should she allow him to do so, sooner or later Mama would learn of his presence and become upset, prompted her to reluctantly receive him.

  If he’d come to do what she feared—to deliver a pro forma proposal—she would flay him alive. But first, she’d not make uttering those sham words of devotion easy.

  She kept her head averted.

  She heard him shuffle about and clear his throat twice. Blast, but she wished she dared take a good look at him in his regimentals. But then, given his effect on her it was probably best to refrain. She waited.

  He cleared his throat once again. “Miss Beaumont, it may have come to your attention that though we have been acquainted but a short while, my, um, regard for you has steadily increased.”

  Like
a brain fever, she thought.

  “In view of the, um, experiences we have recently shared, I feel it imperative to demand you do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

  Through your wanton behavior I’ve been led to action that compromised you, so knowing my duty, I am forced to ask for your hand, she translated mentally.

  Not even the vestige of pretty words about affection, no false promises to honor and cherish. In some detached part of her brain she had to admire his brutal honesty. Still, the reality of that forced proposal was ever so much more degrading than her imagining.

  Too desolate to utter words, she remained silent. The colonel shifted once more, then said impatiently, “Did you not hear me, woman? I’ve just asked you to marry me!”

  She whirled to face him. “‘Asked?’ I believe ‘demand’ was the word you used, Colonel. But let me hasten to assure you such a great sacrifice as you seem willing to make—to bind yourself to a wanton just to secure her fortune—is entirely unnecessary.”

  He knit his brow, as if trying to make sense of Greek. “Bind myself to a…When did I say anything about wantonness or fortunes?”

  “I read between the lines,” she said sweetly. “Now, you have made your offer, I have refused it, and you are free to go. Goodbye.”

  She turned to step away, but he grabbed her arm. “You cannot mean to refuse! What about your reputation?”

  “Is it mine you worry about or your own? Considering the offence occurred in my own garden with nobody to observe but my own family and servants, I think I can assure you your precious reputation is safe. No hint of your dallying with an unmarried miss will pass their lips.”

  He frowned, still holding her arm. “But I know of it. You know of it. There can be only one honorable recourse.”

  Oh, for a moment she nearly gave in. The colonel, every glorious tempting inch of him, every aggravating atom of him, could be hers merely for voicing of a simple “yes.”

  The old Clarissa, supremely confident in the power of her body to charm, mold and change a man, would have taken that offer and worried later about the consequences.