The Secretary

by Brooke, Meg

  Jensen looked at Clarissa, his surprise evident. “I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Ford.”

  Clarissa turned to Anders, trying to conceal her puzzlement. “The new Lady Stowe will likely take on many of Mr. Ford’s duties. She is an intelligent young woman, and I have every confidence in her abilities,” he said.

  “Very good, My Lord.”

  “Shall we, Mr. Ford?”

  “Of course,” Clarissa said, and she rose and followed him out to the stables.

  “Did you really mean what you said back there, about my remaining your secretary?” Clarissa asked as they rode across the park. The horses’ hooves clattered on the bridge over the little creek.

  “Of course I did,” Anders said. “If I respect your mind when you are Mr. Ford, why shouldn’t I respect it when you are Clarissa Rennick? Of course, you will not be able to accompany me to my rooms at Westminster, but there’s no reason I can’t do all my work from Stowe House, rather than some.”

  “Oh, Anders,” Clarissa said, beaming, “I’m so glad to hear that.”

  They rode in silence for a while, veering off to the north and around the edge of the lake. The park was frozen and quiet, still in its winter sleep, but there were hints of a fine spring to come. Far away across the low, rolling fields, Anders saw a farmer leading a herd of sheep out to pasture. He could be satisfied with life here, he thought. He could grow to love it enough that he would wish to balance his life in town with a life here, at Ramsay. And some day, when their children were old enough, he would teach them to ride and climb trees and fall in love with the groves and fields and farms, just as he was beginning to do.

  When they had ridden almost all the way around the lake he said, “You know that I fell in love with your intelligence first, Clarissa. I want you to always remember that, for a day will come when we are old and gray, God willing, and you will not be quite as lithe and limber as you are now. No less beautiful, of course,” he added when she gave him a withering look.

  “Oh, My Lord,” she said in a false simper, “you do say the most romantic things.”

  They were approaching the little summerhouse by the lake that Clarissa had spied from the carriage. When they reached it, Anders led their horses into a copse of trees and let them graze. He helped Clarissa dismount. “No one will see us here,” he said.

  He led her up the stairs into the summerhouse. “The mansion was built in 1701 by my great-great-great grandfather, who was a great friend of Colen Campbell.”

  “The Colen Campbell who wrote Vitruvius Brittanicus?” she asked, sounding suitably impressed.

  “Is there nothing you haven’t read?” he asked, exasperated.

  “A great many things, I should think,” she laughed as he ushered her inside.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “the summerhouse was added about a hundred years later by my grandmother, who loved nothing more than a good house party. She would entertain dozens of guests at Ramsay. Perhaps one day we will do the same.”

  “I will gladly give house parties,” she said, “but please don’t ask me to invite dozens of people. I don’t think I will ever be hostess enough to manage that.”

  “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that. I have always been immensely glad that Stowe House does not have a ballroom large enough for a great squeeze.”

  “I always thought one arranged for a great squeeze by having a ballroom that was too small,” she said.

  “Quite the opposite, I assure you. In order to squeeze the whole ton into your ballroom, you must first have a ballroom nearly large enough to fit them all.”

  She was staring through the glass at the lake. “Will they accept me, do you think?”

  “They have done nothing less so far,” he said, coming to stand beside her. He took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. “And the Stowe name can work wonders. When you are a countess there are few people who dare to snub you.”

  She smiled. “I suppose that will have to do.”

  “Besides,” he added, sliding his hands around her waist, “I’m not planning to let you out of the bedroom often enough to commit any faux pas.”

  “Then you will have to keep me satisfied enough not to mind,” she said. She went up on her tiptoes to meet his lips, wrapping her arms around his neck. His hands slid under her waistcoat, tugging at her shirt to get it free of her trousers. When at last he had it loose he trailed his fingers over her bare skin, and up until they met a thin piece of fabric.

  “What is this?” he asked, skimming his fingers over the edge.

  She blushed. “I...well, it wouldn’t do for my bosom to show through my jacket.”

  “You bind your breasts?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, that makes things a little more difficult,” he said, and he began unbuttoning her waistcoat. She put up her hands to stop him.

  “Someone will see,” she hissed.

  “No they won’t. The park is completely empty, and the summerhouse is surrounded by trees.” And he continued unbuttoning.

  “Are you sure?”

  Anders knew only one way to stop her asking questions. He kissed her again, surprised this time when her tongue slid into his mouth. He let her play as he slipped off her coat and waistcoat and then her shirt. His fingers found the knot that held the strip of white fabric in place and undid it. Then he pulled away so he could see what he was doing as, slowly, he unwound the fabric from around her chest. When her breasts were free, he massaged them, cupping them gently in his hands.

  “Ahh,” she said. “That feels good.”

  “I suppose it would, after they’ve been trapped like that,” he said. Then he kissed her again, pushing her back against the wall. He felt her fingers fumbling at the waist of his trousers, and then she had the buttons free and her hand was slipping inside to wrap around him. He slid his palms down the smooth skin of her back and then around to her front, where he deftly undid the buttons. “Turn around,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Turn around and put your hands on the wall,” he commanded. She did as he asked, and when he pressed his lips to her shoulder and then nibbled lightly, she started, her hips grinding against him. He knew he couldn’t hold back much longer. He tugged at her trousers, pulling them and her drawers down until they reached her ankles. While he crouched there, he ran his tongue along the skin of her inner thigh. She gasped. He rose up, freeing himself from his trousers, and thrust himself between her legs and inside her.

  “Oh, my,” she breathed. “I had no idea...” but she trailed off as he found a rhythm, and soon the only sound in the empty summerhouse was her moans of pleasure. He reached around her and found her slit, his fingers slipping inside, and a few moments later she called out his name and shuddered against him. He let himself go, thrusting deeply, and then came.

  When his mind cleared, he wrapped his arms about her waist and held her tightly against him. She leaned her head back against his shoulder. They stood like that a while, both trying to catch their breath.

  “I don’t think,” she said after a moment, “I will ever be able to have a party in this summerhouse.”

  They put themselves back together and rode towards the house. Clarissa tried not to blush as they strode into the grand hall, though she was certain someone must have seen them. Perhaps that was what had been so exciting about it. Perhaps that was why she had behaved so wantonly.

  But still, she could not find it within herself to be ashamed. She had read anything and everything she could get her hands on as a child, including the volumes in her father’s library about the natural world. She had always known better than most girls what happened between men and women. It was natural, what she and Anders had together. If anything, it was the emotions she felt for him that were more bemusing, for she had always been told that it was the romance that was an illusion.

  After supper that evening, they retired to the drawing room, where Anders poured himself a glass of brandy. “Could I have one?” she asked.
Up until now she had not taken advantage of the fact that, as Clarence Ford, she could partake of many of the things generally forbidden to women. Her father might have had a free hand with her, but there were still some things he had withheld, such as the fine brandy Anders kept on his sideboard. But he didn’t even flinch as he poured her a small glass.

  “Hold it a moment and let it warm up a little,” he said as he handed it to her. He did not caution her about it or try to dissuade her, but merely sat on the sofa across from her and watched as she lifted the glass to her lips.

  It was to her credit, she thought, that she did not choke or cough. The brandy burned as it went down, but it left a pleasant taste in her mouth and a fine glow in her belly. “Good,” she squeaked.

  “It’s an acquired taste,” he said.

  “Have you given any thought to what will happen when we return to London?” she asked.

  “I would like to procure a special license,” he said evenly. “And marry you right away. But I suppose you will want to wait until our month is done.”

  She took another sip of the brandy. “No,” she said. “I will gladly relinquish the rest of my month as Clarence Ford. But I would like to more officially meet your mother and stepfather before we are wed. Do you think it might be possible to arrange such a thing?”

  “I will write to her before we leave in the morning. My stepfather should be able to be in London by Saturday. Might we agree on Monday for the wedding?”

  She nodded. “Monday it is.”

  They drank their brandy in silence for a while. Then he asked, “Will you come to my bed again tonight?”

  She smiled over the rim of her glass. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  NINETEEN

  February 20, 1833

  Anders wrote to his mother before breakfast the next morning, explaining that before he had gone away, Miss Clarissa Martin had consented to become his wife, and that he would like to present her to Mr. and Mrs. Coleridge on Saturday afternoon. He wrote another letter to his stepfather asking him to make the journey up to London to meet his future daughter-in-law. Though he knew it was his mother’s opinion that really mattered, and that she had already expressed how she felt about Clarissa at the Middlebury ball, he also respected his stepfather, who had been a good father to him. He wanted the man to like Clarissa. He knew that both his mother and his stepfather longed for grandchildren, and since Mrs. Coleridge was Mr. Coleridge’s first wife, Anders was the only one who could fulfill that wish.

  The thought of presenting his mother with a grandchild sent his mind back to the afternoon they had visited the Rutledges, to the image of Clarissa holding their infant to her breast. Anders had never particularly liked children—he had never disliked them either, but as an only child he had had little experience with babies. Leo’s sisters had been the closest thing Anders had ever had to siblings, and much as he respected Eleanor, she had been a wet, unpleasant baby who had cried a great deal, and the twins had been little better.

  But when he thought of a child of his and Clarissa’s, a little son or daughter who would have his name and her blue eyes, his heart skipped a beat.

  Perhaps she was already with child.

  He must marry her quickly.

  He sent the letters by express, wishing that Kent were not quite so far away.

  “Is everything ready for our departure?” he asked Carrington when he had dispatched the letters.

  “Yes, My Lord,” Carrington said. Then he cleared his throat.

  Anders did not know Carrington well—he was another servant who had been inherited from his uncle—but he recognized the universal signal of a butler who wished to say something that was not in the normal script. “Yes, Carrington?”

  “I beg your pardon, My Lord,” the butler said, “but is it true that there is to be a new countess soon?”

  Anders felt himself grinning. “Why, yes, Carrington, it is.”

  The butler’s face broke into an expression of joy so earnest and profound that Anders had to struggle not to laugh. He could not imagine Phelps with such an enraptured look on his stoic face. “Oh, that is wonderful news, My Lord,” the butler gushed. “We were all so happy to hear.”

  Anders stared at the man. Did the servants at Ramsay really care whether or not there was a mistress there? He had not imagined that they did, but Carrington’s reaction to the news that a new countess might be arriving soon told him otherwise. “Well,” he said, “I shall have to bring her to Ramsay for your approval soon.”

  The butler colored a little. “Oh, no, My Lord...I mean, you must bring her to Ramsay, of course. The servants will be quite thrilled to meet her. But of course, we have no need to approve of your bride. I am sure you have made a good choice.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Carrington,” Anders said.

  At that moment Clarissa came in, looking a little flushed. “I am sorry to be late, My Lord,” she said, setting her case down beside the desk where Anders still sat.

  “No trouble at all, Ford,” Anders said dismissively. Carrington bowed sharply and went out into the hall to see to their meager luggage.

  Clarissa picked up the sheaf of reports Jensen had prepared and slipped them into the case. “I got lost,” she muttered as she shut the case.

  “Lost?” Anders exclaimed. “Where?”

  Her blush deepened. “In...um...the portrait gallery.”

  “We have a portrait gallery?” Anders asked. He had had a tour of the house at some point, he was sure, but he didn’t remember a portrait gallery.

  “You know, the long room on the second floor behind the library.”

  Anders tried to picture the library. “I think you’re right. I need to spend more time here.”

  Clarissa groaned, grabbed his hand, and hauled him up out of his chair—not an easy task given that he had a nearly a foot and two stone on her. “Come on,” she said, pulling him towards the doors. She let go his hand when they reached the hall, but he followed her up the stairs, through the library and into a long hall beyond.

  “Oh,” he said. “The portrait gallery.”

  It was not unlike other portrait galleries he had seen—a long, paneled room with wide windows overlooking the park and, of course, two dozen family portraits.

  Clarissa was staring up at the paintings, looking quite engrossed. “Do you know who these people are?” she asked as Anders drifted along behind her.

  “Well,” he said. “I believe this is my grandfather, the ninth earl.” He gestured to one of the paintings.

  Clarissa punched him playfully on the elbow. “That’s because it says so right on the frame,” she complained. She was right, of course. Right there on the base of the frame was a placard that said Henry Martin Rennick, 9th Earl of Stowe.

  “I’m glad I never knew him,” Anders said, staring up at his grandfather. “He looks rather unpleasant. When I have your portrait painted for this room, you will smile, do you understand?”

  She laughed. “Yes, My Lord,” she said.

  He took her hand and pulled her close. “I mean it,” he growled.

  She gave him a look of mock seriousness. “I know you do,” she said.

  He leaned down and dipped his lips to hers for a quick kiss. It deepened quickly, however, and soon she was pressed against him, standing on her toes with her arms wrapped around his neck.

  There was a noise back in the library, and they broke apart swiftly. “I must get you back to London and marry you as quickly as I can,” he said softly. “This is intolerable.”

  “For me, too,” she said as they made their way back towards the library.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said as he ushered her back down the stairs and out into the crisp morning air.

  As they climbed into the carriage, she asked, “But perhaps not quite as quickly as the journey here?”

  “No,” he replied as the carriage rolled down the lane and out of the park, “We will set a more...leisurely pace. After all, there are many inns
with very comfortable beds along the way.”

  She glanced out the window. “You know we can’t, Anders,” she said. “We certainly can’t share a room at an inn, not with me dressed as a man.”

  “Of course,” he murmured, merely to indulge her. He had every intention of sharing her bed that night, and the next. It was a long journey back to London, and he meant to use every moment of it wisely.

  By the time the carriage clattered into the dark inn-yard in Amesbury, Clarissa was sore and exhausted. She had finished reading Iphigenia out loud to Anders by noon, and when she had closed the book he had blinked a few times.

  “What a strange tale,” he said.

  “How so?” She had thought it a rather ordinary Greek story.

  “Well, first of all, how could Iphigenia not recognize her own brother? It hasn’t been that long since she saw him. And how did Orestes fail to know that she was his sister? It seems to me that the whole plot hinges on their inadequate memories.”

  She looked down at the book. “It does, rather. But I still enjoyed it. And it has a happy ending.”

  He shrugged.

  They spent the rest of the day in relative silence. Anders spent much of the time looking over the papers Jensen had prepared for him, occasionally passing one across the carriage to her for her inspection. Clarissa was astounded by the revenues the estate brought in. It was a little overwhelming to think that he trusted her to help him manage so much important business. But it was gratifying as well.

  When at last they reached Amesbury, it was evening, and she longed for nothing more than a hot bath and a soft bed. They agreed that they would dine in Anders’s chamber after they had both washed and changed, and then they parted.

  The inn seemed to be a model of efficiency. It was not long before a hot bath was prepared, and when the maid had gone Clarissa slipped gratefully into the warm water, every muscle in her body crying out. It had been a grueling week, she thought. Between the breakneck carriage ride to Somerset, being on a horse for the first time in years, and now another day of traveling over less than ideal roads, she was beginning to feel closer to fifty-four than twenty-four.