The Secretary

by Brooke, Meg

  When Mrs. Rutledge had calmed herself a little, she said, “I’m sorry, My Lord.”

  “No, no,” he said. “You deserve a few tears. No doubt there will be more. You are a strong woman, Mrs. Rutledge, and I admire your bravery. Yours too, Mr. Rutledge. The children will not have an easy road. Losing a parent is an experience that changes you forever,” he added, looking up at Clarissa. When he saw the baby in her arms, his expression changed into something unreadable, a look that made Clarissa’s heart slam against her ribcage.

  “Thank you, My Lord,” Mr. Rutledge said.

  “I want to do something for your family,” Anders said.

  “Oh, My Lord, that’s not—”

  Anders held up his hand. “But I will do it anyway. I am going to take on the cost of the funerals, of course. But I am also going to put six hundred pounds in the funds for your family; a hundred pounds for each of the children. It will allow you to send them to school or buy them apprenticeships.”

  Mrs. Rutledge dabbed at her eyes. “You are a fine man, My Lord. We thank you for this generous gift.”

  “It is nothing,” Anders said.

  Against Clarissa’s breast the baby stirred and whimpered a little. Mrs. Rutledge held out her arms, and Clarissa surrendered the child back to its mother. “We must be going,” Anders said. “We have many more stops to make. But we will see you again in the morning.”

  Mr. Rutledge showed them out. “I can’t thank you enough, My Lord,” he said as they stood at the door. “I would never tell my wife, but I have been wondering how we could possibly afford my nieces in addition to all our other children. Thank you.”

  “Of course,” Anders said. Then he and Clarissa mounted and rode away.

  They visited eight farms that afternoon, including the burned-out wreckage of the Lapham home. Jensen had assured Anders that the fire had been an accident, not caused by the condition of the house or any neglect on his part. When he stood in the remains of the Lapham house, he was able to do so without feeling the burden of knowing he might have prevented the terrible thing that had happened. The weight of that guilt lifted, it was far easier to sit with his other tenants and listen to their other concerns.

  And Clarissa was always there. She listened attentively to each family, the image of the perfect secretary—silent and unobtrusive. She even seemed to have memorized the map of his estate, correcting him a few times when he would have gone the wrong direction. No one observing her would have known she was anything but the most capable assistant. But Anders could not shake the picture of her holding the Rutledge’s baby from his mind. When he had looked up to see her with the child in her arms, he had instantly imagined what she would look like dressed as herself, with their child in her arms, and his heart had beat a little faster.

  As they rode back towards Ramsay, Clarissa said, “I’m proud of you, Anders. You are a good landlord. It will not be easy to balance this place and your duties in town, but if anyone can do it, I think you can.”

  “I must try,” he said. “I have neglected these people for far too long.”

  The morning of the funerals dawned crisp and clear. Anders and Clarissa rode into the village for the service, Clarissa steeling herself to maintain her composure. She could not cry in front of the villagers. They would not understand.

  But as she stood in that little church beside Anders in his dark suit, the caskets in front of them draped in white lawn, her spirit threatened to break. She bit her lower lip and tried to the think of anything but the caskets and the little girls who would have to live forever with the loss of their family. Just as she thought she was about to weep, however, she felt a firm, gentlemanly hand on her shoulder. Anders leaned in as if he were going to mention some task that needed to be done, but instead he whispered, “I love you. You are a strong, capable person. You can do this.”

  That shocked the tears out of her. As the curate stood and began to recite the prayers, she fought not to turn and stare at him. He loved her? She followed along in the hymnal, but inside her emotions were in turmoil. As they stood at the gravesides and Anders threw his handful of dirt onto each casket, she asked herself: did she love him?

  Of course she did.

  She had loved him since he had given her a book in Greek, showing that he was not afraid of her mind. The hooks had been sunk even deeper into her heart when she had seen how deeply he cared about the people of the realm who could not care for themselves, who were hopeless and downtrodden.

  As they rode back to Ramsay, she came to a decision.

  She would marry him. She could not imagine a life without him. In a little more than two weeks, he had become as vital to her as air and water. And when he asked her, she would accept.

  But somewhere along the road from her dingy flat in London to his side, something had changed within her. She was no longer the staid, upright little philosopher her father had raised. He had been unable to teach her to be a woman.

  But Anders could. She wanted to be his, completely. And now. She did not want to wait until they were married. She wanted to show him that she trusted him not only with her greatest secrets, but with her heart. And she knew he wanted the same thing, even if he didn’t know it. For all his bluster about her reputation, she knew that, if given the opportunity, he wouldn’t hesitate.

  Now all she had to do was present him with that opportunity.

  Anders and Clarissa spent the entire afternoon with Jensen, going over the estate affairs. He made decisions about sowings and harvests, roofs and fences. He committed funds to the repair of the barns on several of the farms. He read accounts of the few disputes between the tenants and chose which he would resolve himself. The whole time, Clarissa was at his side, listening attentively, advising him on some decisions and letting him make others on his own. She asked intelligent questions and received respectful answers from Jensen.

  He did not regret for a moment what he had said to her in the church that morning. He had known that he loved her for days. But he had needed an opportunity to tell her. Now he had to convince her that she loved him enough to spend the rest of their lives together. And before that, he wanted to show her just how pleasurable being married to him could be.

  When they sat down to supper in the dining room, he made a decision.

  He would propose to her, of course. And he would wait the rest of the month if she wanted. But while they were here, at Ramsay, where there could be no consequences, he would make her his. Completely. He loved her, and he suspected that she loved him. Now all he needed was an opportunity.

  SEVENTEEN

  When supper was over and they had retired to their rooms, Clarissa undressed slowly. She did not take off her wig, but she unbound her breasts and removed her drawers. Then, her fingers shaking, she took her nightshirt out of the wardrobe. It had been her father’s, and the sleeves were quite long, but she had brought it because she knew she could not risk being seen in her nightgown, or having a servant see such a strange article of clothing in a man’s traveling case. Now she was glad she had thought of such a trivial detail. If she was seen in the corridor, no one would know it was not Mr. Ford, secretary to the earl.

  It was nearly midnight when she slipped out into the hall. The blue room was two doors away from Anders’s chambers, and it did not take her long to reach his door. But just as her fingers found the doorknob, it turned and the door swung in, taking Clarissa with it. She fell against a hard, smooth chest beneath a nightshirt much finer than her own. Her hands clutched at the fabric as she struggled to stay on her feet. Beneath her palms, the masculine chest shook with soft laughter.

  “Why, Mr. Ford,” Anders said. “Whatever are you doing?”

  Clarissa squeaked and rushed past him. He shut the door and leaned against it.

  “What are you doing here?” he repeated.

  “I...I came to see you,” she managed.

  He closed the space between them. “In your nightshirt?”

  “Yes.”

&nbs
p; He slid his hands up the back of her neck, raising gooseflesh all along her skin. “How very odd.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because,” he said, laughing low in his throat, “I was coming to see you.” His fingers slipped under her wig, lifting it off her head and casting it aside. Then he pulled off her cap and began tugging the pins from her hair. When the last one had pinged across the floor, he ran his fingers through her curls. She sighed with relief and pleasure. Her fingers were still tangled in the fabric of his nightshirt. She pulled him down until his lips were an inch from hers.

  “Are you sure?” he whispered.

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  He kissed her. It was not a polite kiss. It was a bruising, ravishing, devastating kiss. His tongue plundered her mouth, and his hands cradled her face. When he pulled away and began pressing fevered kisses to the smooth skin of her throat, she was breathless. Her knees went weak. She felt her legs collapsing underneath her, but he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the massive bed, setting her gently down on her knees atop the coverlet. Then he kissed her again, so thoroughly that she almost didn’t notice when his hands slowly lifted the hem of her nightshirt. But when it was up past her waist, and then her breasts, she did notice. She felt her skin flushing despite the cool air as he lifted the flimsy thing over her head. Then he stepped back. There was a single candle on the nightstand behind him, and even in the feeble light she still felt exposed. Under his gaze, her nipples hardened and her stomach tied itself into knots. But she stayed where she was, letting him look. At last he came back and took her into his arms again, his mouth against the hollow of her throat, his hands sliding down her naked flesh. He pulled her against him and she felt his hardness pressed against the sensitive place at her core.

  He pushed her back onto the bed, coming with her, covering her body with his. His mouth moved from her throat to her collarbone. When his lips brushed the skin of her breast, she moaned aloud.

  “Do that again,” he whispered against her skin. Then he took the tip of her breast into his mouth and sucked. She moaned even more loudly, her breath coming in little gasps. His hand slid down her body and between her legs. With his deft fingers, he opened her and stroked. She had to bite down on a scream.

  “I...I don’t know what to do,” she managed to whimper.

  “You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “Just feel.” His lips moved to her other breast, and then further down, across her belly and to the curls below. She opened her mouth to ask what he meant to do, but then his lips found her most sensitive place, and his tongue flicked out, and she lost all ability to speak or even to think. She writhed on the bed beneath him, her fingers running through his hair as his lips and tongue and teeth nearly sent her over an edge she hadn’t known existed within her.

  When she thought she might go mad from the pleasure, he slid back up her body, the fabric of his nightshirt brushing against her skin, driving her wild. She pulled at the collar, and he reached down and hauled it over his head. She looked down and saw him jutting out, hard and very, very large. She knew what was meant to happen next, and just thinking of it made her tremble. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, his lips brushing her earlobe.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not afraid. Now, please.” She did not know how she knew what she wanted—she only knew that she wanted it immediately.

  His body pressed against hers, his skin burning hot. He reached down and touched her again, and her legs spread a little wider. His body slid into the space, and then she felt him pressing against her, pushing into her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and then he thrust in.

  There was a momentary twinge of pain, and then pleasure, so deep and dark that she was sure she would perish. She sighed as he held very still within her. And then he began to move. His breath was harsh in her ear, and she put her hands against his chest, the feeling of him sliding inside her so intense that she could barely move. But at last she found the rhythm and began to rock against him, and they moved together, the pleasure building inside her until suddenly, something deeply buried in the heart of her burst open. She saw stars. She forgot to breathe. She cried out, and he convulsed within her, and then they both were lying still, shaking and struggling for breath.

  She was not sure how long he lay atop her. After a while, he said, “I must be heavy.”

  “No,” she said. “It feels right.”

  But he pulled free and wrapped his arms around her, taking her with him. They settled with their heads on one pillow, and he tugged the coverlet from beneath them and pulled it over their bodies. She laid her head on his shoulder.

  They were both asleep in seconds.

  Anders awoke with the moonlight shining through the window and Clarissa stretched out against his side, her smooth skin warm against his. Her even breathing told him she was still asleep, but he glanced down at her peaceful face anyway, and then pressed a gentle kiss to her soft, silky hair.

  She stirred and murmured something against his chest.

  “What was that?” he asked. She lifted her head a little and opened her eyes.

  “I said, is that what you learned to do at Cambridge?”

  He laughed and pulled her up for a kiss. “How are you feeling?”

  She shifted against him. “A little sore. Is that normal?”

  “I believe so,” he said. He slipped out of bed and went to the washstand.

  “How long were we asleep?” she asked as he wet a cloth and came back to the bed.

  “An hour, perhaps a little more,” he said. “Here.” He pulled back the coverlet and ran the cloth between her legs.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she protested, blushing.

  “I don’t want to get any blood on the sheets,” he said. “How would I explain that?” Then he held up the cloth so she could see the red stain. “You’re not a virgin any longer.”

  She put her hand on his forearm. “I’m glad. I made the right choice.”

  “Good,” he said, and he kissed her again. Her hand came up against his chest, and then her delicate fingers slid lower as he nibbled her lip. When her fingertips brushed the tender skin below his stomach, he said, “If you go any further, I might have to show you what else they taught me at Cambridge.”

  “So teach me,” she said, and her hand slid around him. Instantly he was hard as a rock, and when she ran her fingers down his length he found himself gasping for breath.

  “Oh, God,” he whispered. His put his hands around her waist and rolled her on top of him. She continued to stroke him with her gentle fingers. “Harder,” he groaned, and she tightened her grip. With a low growl, he lifted her and brought her down hard, thrusting up into her as he did so. She cried out, and he held still for a moment. Then he used his hands to show her how to move. “Like that,” he said when she had found her rhythm. “Just like that.”

  The moonlight danced over her pale skin as she moved atop him, and it wasn’t long before she cried out again and collapsed against his chest. He rolled them again and thrust into her, riding the wave of her pleasure to his own climax. When it came, he murmured into her hair, “I love you, Clarissa.”

  “I love you, too,” she whispered back.

  When it was over, he lay beside her, one hand splayed across her belly. “Clarissa,” he said, “will you marry me?”

  She smiled. “Are you sure you still want me, now that I’m a fallen woman?”

  He pulled her closer. “I want you because you are beautiful and intelligent and perfect, perfect in every way, including this,” he said, sliding his hand up her ribcage until his knuckles brushed the underside of one breast. “I want to wake up every morning with you beside me. I want you to be my countess, and my wife. Will you, Clarissa?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Now let’s go to sleep.”

  EIGHTEEN

  February 19, 1833

  Clarissa rose in the pre-dawn hours and slipped back into her nightshirt. She picked up every last pin, including the
one that had skittered away under the chair. There was a benefit to poverty, she thought as she got down on her knees to retrieve it. She counted each of those pins every night to make sure she didn’t lose one. She knew exactly how many she had to find. Then, standing before the full-length mirror, she rolled her hair back into its pin curls and slipped on her cap and wig.

  She was once more Clarence Ford, correct and proper secretary. There was not a hint of Clarissa Martin, fallen woman in her reflection. But she knew what she was. She felt the change that had come over her to her very core. And she knew there was no going back.

  As she slipped out into the corridor and back into her own chamber, she wondered what it would be like to be mistress of this great house, to visit the villagers and tenants as Lady Stowe. She was not certain she was ready to fill that role. But Anders would help her. She had no doubt that he would stay by her side, through everything. And she would learn. If there was one thing Clarissa knew about herself, it was that she was a quick learner.

  Hours later, after they had broken their fast while exchanging meaningful glances across the table, Clarissa and Anders met once more with Mr. Jensen.

  “We’ll be leaving in the morning,” Anders explained. “I have to get back to Parliament. But I will return soon, hopefully with a new countess at my side.”

  “Really, My Lord?” Jensen said.

  “It is my fervent hope, Jensen.” Anders did not even glance at Clarissa. She was glad he didn’t, for she wasn’t certain she could have kept her composure. As it was, her hands were trembling so much that she had to put her pen down atop her folio.

  “Congratulations, My Lord,” Jensen said.

  Anders stood. “I have promised Mr. Ford a tour of the park, since this will likely be his last visit.”