by Jo Beverley
“I believe Captain Middleton was stronger than you realize. At least in spirit,” he finally answered. “But he loathed every second that the war took him from your side. Whatever you think about his reasons for going, you must never doubt that.”
“Thank … thank you,” she stammered. She looked at him uncertainly, not sure what else to say. The familiar, confusing mix of anger, sorrow, and guilt whirled within her, but it seemed muted, as if the individual emotions had lost some of their power.
Christian waited patiently for her to recover her countenance. Standing with his back to the cheerful mob, he used his body to protect her from the crush. She gazed into his handsome face, and a seductive warmth began to steal through her limbs, along with an oddly familiar sense of something else. Was it belonging?
Clarissa frowned and took a step back. That couldn’t possibly be right. She didn’t belong anywhere. Jeremy’s death had pitched her into an obscure landscape, and she hadn’t yet begun to find her way back to where life had been before.
As she struggled to understand the elusive emotions, Christian moved closer. His muscular thigh, encased in form-fitting white breeches, brushed the skirts of her gown. She shivered, and the soft warmth of only a few moments ago fled, replaced by feelings of both panic and excitement. Sucking in a breath, she willed her racing heart to settle.
She stared at the medals and ribbons on his broad chest as she gave herself a silent scolding. There was nothing to be afraid of or excited about. Not in conversation with an old friend.
But then why was she so tongue-tied?
A mist of perspiration beaded her neck as she searched for a harmless topic of conversation. Christian began to look amused again, and not the least bit awkward. Fortunately for her nerves, he broke the embarrassing silence.
“Lillian tells me you have just come out of deep mourning. I’m honored that you chose this event to grace with your presence.”
She blushed, wondering if he was teasing her.
“Truly, it … it was nothing,” she stammered. Blast! What the devil was wrong with her?
She tried again. “I was happy to come. You know how persuasive Lillian can be. She would have had my head if I refused. Your mamma, as well. She was quite insistent.”
Splendid. Now she was babbling. Anyone would think she was a debutante in her first season, instead of a widow approaching her middle years.
His gaze sharpened. “Clarissa, I’m not teasing you. I am genuinely honored.”
Her face flamed with the belief that she was making a complete fool of herself.
“How did you know I thought—” She broke off. “Oh, never mind. I don’t want to know. Shall we talk about something else besides me?”
“Of course,” he said. “What would you like to talk about?”
“You,” she blurted out.
His eyebrows went up and his grin returned. It took all her willpower to repress a groan. Without a doubt, she had truly forgotten how to make polite conversation.
He leaned back against the curving alcove wall and settled his arms across his chest.
“What would you like to know?”
“Lillian said you were wounded. Shot through the shoulder. Was the wound very bad? Has it healed?”
He shrugged, and the muscles of his upper arms flexed under the smooth fabric of his scarlet coat. The gold epaulette on his uniform shimmered in the light of a nearby wall sconce, drawing her reluctant gaze to his brawny shoulders. The moisture in her mouth evaporated.
“I’ve had worse,” he said. “At least this one gave me an excuse for a furlough. It’s been almost two years since I returned home.”
Clarissa resisted the impulse to lick her parched lips. She would die before she would let Christian see the extent of her nervousness.
“You must be very happy to see your family again,” she said brightly.
His eyes grew dark and knowing as he gave her an appraising inspection. Heat danced across her skin when his gaze fell to her bosom, swelling almost indecently over the edge of her low-cut bodice.
Clarissa bit her lip, trying not to breathe too heavily as she cursed Lillian for persuading her to wear such a scandalous gown. What must Christian think of her?
His next statement made the answer crystal clear.
“There are others I’m just as happy to see,” he murmured in a husky voice. “One of those I ’d like to spend a great deal of time with. Alone, if possible.”
She stifled a gasp. Was Christian actually flirting with her? How could that be possible?
Dumbfounded, she took in the wicked gleam in his eyes and the seductive curve of his mouth. Her mind tried desperately to refute what she sensed with every fiber of her being.
But her mind failed. Christian was flirting with her. Even worse, she feared he was trying to seduce her. Why, she couldn’t begin to fathom. But what she could fathom was that it scared her half to death—for more reasons than she could count, starting with the fact that he was a soldier. She had vowed never to love another soldier.
Not to mention the fact that Christian was five years her junior.
“Well, Clarissa,” he purred. “What do you think? Would you like to spend some time with me, starting with the next dance?”
He moved then, pushing away from the wall to close the distance between them. He loomed over her, forcing her to tilt her head back to look into his face.
Clarissa sucked in a startled breath, both terrified and fascinated by the blatant invitation in his eyes. It made her legs tremble and her body grow weak. His gloved hand moved down the bare flesh of her arm, trailing shivers in its wake. He took her hand in a gentle clasp, weaving their fingers together.
“It’s only a dance, Clarissa,” he murmured. “What’s the harm?”
She let out a sigh—almost a whimper—as some part of her addled brain urged her to give in. To lean into his big, hard body and allow him to sweep her away. He made her feel alive again, full of sparkling energy and heat. Part of her welcomed it with a burning need to escape the cold that had wrapped itself around her heart and soul for so long.
Almost without thought, she returned the pressure of his hand. He smiled, his eyes flaring with something like triumph. His hand closed around hers, hard and possessive.
With a thump, Clarissa fell to earth. A thousand voices in her head urged her to flee before she made an even bigger fool of herself. Christian had no business treating her this way. Like a woman to be desired, not a widow sworn never to love again.
She snatched her hand away. “You must forgive me. I promised Lillian I would help her with something.”
He frowned, puzzlement chasing away some of the heat in his eyes.
“I’m sure Lillian would prefer you to stay here and enjoy yourself. I will be glad to provide any excuse you need to avert her irritation.”
That was exactly what she was afraid of.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, backing away from him.
She bumped into a stout dowager, who promptly dropped her fan. Rolling his eyes, Christian scooped it up and handed it back to the protesting matron. Clarissa seized the opportunity to escape into the crush of guests.
As she wove her way to the door, she chanced a glance back in Christian’s direction. He stood where she had left him, hands on his lean hips, his stern gaze locked on to her across the room. She froze like a rabbit before a fox, and his mobile eyebrows lifted in enquiry. Then he gave her a slow, satisfied curve of the lips.
With that, she turned and fled. But a quiet, inner voice whispered that whatever his game was, Christian would not let her escape so easily the next time.
Christian eyed Clarissa’s barely restrained dash to freedom. She held her slender back ramrod straight, but her shoulders, hitched up around her ears, spoke of how thoroughly he had unnerved her.
Biting back an oath, he started after her. He’d made several unforgivable blunders, any one of which would have given her ample reason to flee. No wond
er, because his first sight of her had knocked him back on his heels, and years of repressed desire had come roaring to the surface. What little caution he’d had—and he’d never had much when it came to her—evaporated like morning mist under a blazing Spanish sun.
Clarissa disappeared behind a group of preening dandies, but a moment later he caught a glimpse of her guinea-gold hair, pulled back in a simple chignon. God, she was lovely. So lovely it made his chest ache with a pain he’d spent years trying to banish. He would never have thought it possible, but she was even more beautiful than she’d been eight years ago. Perhaps her suffering and grief had harrowed her body and spirit down to their perfect, essential elements, for there was no artifice to Clarissa. Everything she was and had ever been could be read in the pure lines of her face, and in the honest clarity of her amber-colored gaze.
He remembered the last time they’d met, on her wedding day. Clarissa had been twenty-three—almost on the shelf, by the standards of the ton. But no one who watched her walk down the aisle could think that. For years, dozens of suitors had vied for her hand, attracted by her pale beauty, her kind nature, and her generous fortune. She had refused them all, including the high-borne lords.
But then she met Jeremy Middleton, a scholarly young gentleman from a good but not particularly fashionable military family. In his own quiet way, Jeremy had swept Clarissa off her feet. They were married two months to the day after Lillian introduced them.
A week later, Christian had persuaded his father to purchase his commission in the regulars, not the militia. Having to remain in England while seeing Clarissa in the arms of another man would have driven him mad. Yes, he was five years her junior and had never stood a chance with her, but he’d adored her since he was a stripling. The gap in their ages hadn’t made a damn bit of difference to him. And not the years, the miles, or the other women in his life had ever fully erased her presence in his heart.
He studied her sweetly rounded figure as she made her way through the ballroom, smiling and nodding to acquaintances, but allowing no one to stop her. She thought to escape him. Perhaps if he were a better man, he would let her go.
But fate had intervened in the form of Jeremy Middle-ton’s tragic death and given him another chance. Not that Christian would have wished that tragedy to befall her. He would have gladly spared Clarissa that terrible loss—even given his own life for Middleton’s—if he could have. But God and Napoleon’s army had deemed otherwise, and Christian wouldn’t turn away from the opportunity presented to him.
Not that it would be easy. He had obstacles to overcome, starting with their age difference. She would see that as an insurmountable difficulty. But eight years in the army—most of it at war—had taught him patience and determination. It had made him a man, and Clarissa’s equal.
She finally managed to reach the wide, arching doorway. Passing through it, she turned left. Christian was tall enough to peer over the heads of the dancers and see Clarissa hurrying toward the marble staircase leading down to the entrance hall.
Perfect.
If he didn’t miss his guess, she would slip downstairs and cut through his father’s study to the back terrace overlooking the garden. He had escaped more than one boring dinner party by slipping out the same way, often to indulge in a solitary cigar.
Christian made his way through the crowd at a leisurely pace. No need to hurry, now that he was sure where his quarry would seek refuge. In fact, it made sense to give Clarissa time to compose herself. The darling girl needed kind and careful handling, and he had every intention of giving her exactly that.
Or so he thought until a few seconds later, when a tall, dark-headed officer adorned with a major’s chevrons emerged from the cluster of guests near the head of the stairs. The man cut through a knot of chattering women, obviously intent on following Clarissa. Even as far back as he was, Christian could see greedy anticipation on the officer’s blunt-featured countenance.
Blundell.
Expelling a frustrated breath, Christian picked up his pace, moving quickly around the perimeter of the ballroom. The last person Clarissa would want to see was Lord Ever-ard Blundell, a major in the same regiment as Jeremy Middleton. But where Jeremy had perished at Badajoz, Blundell had returned home without a scratch. Not surprising, given he had a politician’s talent for avoiding danger to himself.
Years ago, Everard Blundell had been Clarissa’s most persistent suitor. Her father had exerted tremendous pressure on her to marry him—after all, Blundell was the son of a powerful marquess. But Clarissa had firmly resisted. As a consequence, she had incurred her father’s verbal wrath, and probably a slap or two from him in the process. But she had held her ground, convinced, so Lillian had told him, that Blundell was a bully and a cad. Her assessment, as far as Christian was concerned, was dead-on.
Blundell charged down the stairs in Clarissa’s wake. Christian dodged a large, turbaned matron, determined to catch up with the bastard before he could reach Clarissa, alone and vulnerable, on the terrace.
“Captain Archer, hold fast there,” exclaimed a familiar voice from behind him.
Christian bit back a curse so foul his mother would have swooned if she heard it. He halted and turned to see General Sir Arthur Stanton trundling down the hallway toward him. At any other time he would have enjoyed reporting to the old warhorse, but not tonight. Not when Clarissa might be in trouble.
“Well, my boy, I finally track you down,” said the general, planting himself firmly in Christian’s path. “How go things with the First Foot? How is my old friend General Pakenham? Don’t spare me any details. I have all night, and I want to hear everything.”
Chapter 3
Clarissa leaned over the stone balustrade of the terrace and peered at the shadow-filled garden below her. The chill of the October evening made her shiver, but she welcomed the cool air on her overheated skin.
She’d been so eager to escape the ball she hadn’t thought to retrieve her wrap from one of the servants. Flustered, with conflicting thoughts skittering about in her head, she’d been intent only on retreat—mostly from Christian, but also from anyone else who might stop her. She’d always been like that at social functions. Her father had lamented what he called her fatal lack of charm, saying only her looks and his money had made her even passably acceptable. A man wanted a companion, he’d complain. Someone to entertain and amuse him, not some timid mouse of a girl who would bore him to death.
She breathed out an unhappy sigh, resting her forearms on the stone ledge. Jeremy had rescued her from that glittering but nerve-wracking world, but he couldn’t rescue her now. Not from herself and her stupid fears, nor from well-meaning friends determined to push her back into a life she’d never wanted.
Unnerved by the fine tremors coursing through her fingers, Clarissa stood tall and flexed her hands. Blast Christian for flirting with her like she was just another pleasant diversion whilst on furlough. Still, he was young and handsome and would soon return to the front, so why shouldn’t he entertain himself? Any man in his position would. But why did he pick her, for heaven’s sake?
Her cheeks prickled with shameful heat as she acknowledged a possible explanation. Christian was probably taking pity on her, offering a brief flirtation because he felt sorry for the lonely widow uncomfortable in polite society. Perhaps Lillian, so obviously worried about her, had put him up to it. The very notion that her friend might have persuaded Christian to do such a thing—to make Clarissa the recipient of misguided charity—made her stomach churn.
Carefully gathering her skirts, she sat down on one of the wrought iron benches scattered around the terrace. The cold of the metal seat quickly penetrated her gown and chemise, but despite the chill she couldn’t bring herself to return to the house. Not until she could regain at least some semblance of composure.
And certainly not until she understood her own confused reaction to Christian’s attentions. That was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it? Regardless of his intentio
ns, and what it all meant to him, how did she feel about it?
After several useless minutes fidgeting with the lace trim on her fan, Clarissa had to admit the truth. Christian had frightened her, but she’d been flattered by his seductive flirtation. More than flattered. Entranced. She’d actually wanted him to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.
That impulse had lasted only moments, but those moments had been enough. Enough to forget she had been standing in a crowded room full of chattering gossips. Enough to forget she had vowed never to fall in love again, and certainly never with a man like him.
Even worse, when Christian had stared at her, his gaze so hot and knowing, she had forgotten about Jeremy. What re- spectable woman—a widow, barely out of mourning—would so easily betray the memory of her beloved husband?
With an irritated sigh, she rose. Either she could hide like a coward, or she could go back inside with her head high and act like the sensible person she knew herself to be. Whatever disturbing emotions plagued her right now, their cause would soon take himself back to Portugal. All she had to do was keep Christian at a safe distance until he departed. Then life would return to its quiet, safe routine, exactly as she wanted. She owed that to Jeremy’s memory.
She crossed the terrace toward the study. With a little luck, she could find Lillian and Lady Archer immediately and make her excuses for the night. It wouldn’t be a lie to claim she had a headache, since all this fruitless rumination had indeed set her temples throbbing.
As she reached the French doors to the study, a bulky shape loomed out of the darkness. Surprised, she gasped and took a quick step back, catching her heel on the hem of her gown. A beefy hand shot out and took her by the elbow, squeezing it tightly.
“Careful now, Mrs. Middleton,” said an oddly nasal voice. “We can’t have you tumbling down and cracking your pretty head on the paving stones, can we?”
