Clara’s father stared him down, seeming to attempt to judge the veracity of his words. Before he could form a response, the study door opened unannounced. The subject of their conversation sailed over the threshold in an elaborate afternoon gown of deep, riveting navy silk trimmed with gold cording.
From her elaborately styled braid to her hem, she was faultlessly elegant, more beautiful than any lady he’d ever before seen. To look upon her, he’d never guess she had so recently been nude and sated in his bed. He shouldn’t have been so coarse with her and well he knew it, but he’d been consumed, too caught up to control himself. Her cheeks were flushed, the sole sign of any discomposure on her part.
“Father,” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with a vibrant affection that would have made him jealous indeed had she addressed any other man.
He was so distracted by drinking in the sight of her that he nearly forgot to stand. Damn it, what was wrong with him? He stood a full half minute after Whitney swept from his chair and met Clara halfway across the study, clasping her to him in an undignified embrace that spoke to the depths of his love.
Julian fought the urge to look away from the unabashed display. He was not familiar with such unfettered emotion and it made him deuced uncomfortable. He was quite certain that neither his mother nor his harsh bastard of a father had ever treated him with a tenth of the adoration Clara’s father so freely showered upon her.
“Clara darlin’.” Whitney’s drawl was infinitely more pronounced as he stepped back, appearing to remember himself. He surveyed Clara as if inspecting her for a sign of ill treatment. “Are you well?”
Clara’s gaze slipped to Julian’s for a moment, and he felt the clash as keenly as he would her touch. The glittering depths of her blue eyes spoke of the abruptness of their last meeting in his chamber. He had been cold to her. Had spilled his seed on her as if he were no better than a rutting animal. And she—regal, elegant, and lovely—she had accepted his every act. She had not questioned. Had not railed against him.
Had he told her all he could offer her was fucking? Suddenly he wondered if it were true. For how could she inspire such fierce feelings within him, the likes of which he’d never known? No other woman had ever made him feel the way Clara did: possessive, bewildered, helpless but to bask in the brilliance of her presence.
He’d never know what his wife read in his expression. Jesus, he liked to think she could read nothing at all, that he wasn’t a book pried open for her thorough inspection. But whatever the case, she turned back to her father with the air of a woman who had reached a decision.
“I’m very well, Father.” She bestowed a beatific smile upon Whitney and embraced him yet again. “How are you and Lady Bella and Virginia? I must confess that I’ve missed you.”
He felt like an interloper in his own home as he awkwardly watched the tableau before him. Never had he even heard his wife speak with such a soft, lilting drawl. And she’d yet to acknowledge him, a slight that was perhaps unintentional but nevertheless unmissed.
“As I’ve missed you, my dear daughter.” Genuine emotion marked Whitney’s low voice. He stepped away from her then, clearing his throat to ward away what sounded like deep sentiment.
By God, was the devil…weeping? Julian found himself straining closer, longing to see the pistol-wielding, threat-issuing American brought to his knees. And wasn’t that the best bloody joke of them all, one man laid low by Clara hoping that his nemesis was as well?
Hellfire, he was a wreck. Perhaps the blows he’d taken to the head had rendered him prone to madness. Yes, surely that was the explanation for the confounding round of emotions churning through him now. Emotions. From a man who’d believed he no longer had the capacity to sustain them. What irony.
“Oh, Father.” Clara said in soft tones, her smile warm and indulgent. “I’m not far from you here. You’re always welcome in our home. Is that not true, Lord Ravenscroft?”
Her vivid eyes pinned him once again, bringing him back into the conversation as though he’d just stepped into the room for the first time. He gathered his faculties, took a breath. It wouldn’t do to appear undone or affected before Clara. And most especially not before her violent hound of a father. He was the Earl of Ravenscroft. He’d fashioned apathy into an art form.
“Of course, my lady.” He kept his tone as mild as possible given the wildness of his inner thoughts. With great effort, he smiled at Jesse Whitney, who watched him now with the careful air of a man who’d just spotted a rattler in his path and sought how best to distract him to avoid being bitten. “Mr. Whitney, we would be humbled if you and Mrs. Whitney would join us for dinner in the upcoming weeks. Lady Ravenscroft will send a formal invitation, of course.”
The pleased smile Clara sent his way was worth the pride he had to swallow to invite the man to dinner. There was something about Jesse Whitney that went against the grain. The man didn’t like him, didn’t trust him. Part of Julian couldn’t blame him. Part of him wanted to prove him wrong.
“We would be happy to accept I’m sure,” Whitney said easily, sparing Julian half a glance before looking back upon Clara. “Clara, daughter. Might I have a word alone with you?”
Clara’s eyes swung from him to her father. Julian felt his face settling into a familiar mask. Here was a new experience. No one had ever before forced him to vacate his own study, threadbare and dilapidated though it was. Indeed, he’d come frighteningly near to being evicted from the entire home, but that danger was now a thing of the past. Still, he supposed there was a first for everything, and being dismissed from his inner sanctum was certainly that.
“My lord?” she asked, her gaze questioning. Probing. Seeing more than he damn well wanted her to see.
The truth of it was that she didn’t need to ask him permission. He was not her bloody gaoler. Unable to keep the twist of self-derision from his smile, he bowed with as much formal elegance as he could muster. “Of course, my lady. Pray excuse me. I find I’ve important matters to attend elsewhere.”
Another bow and he stalked from his study, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. But just as soon as he asked himself the question, he’d already acquired the answer. Clara. His little dove. His wife, damn it. She’d changed everything. She’d even begun to change him.
But one thing remained the same. Her oaf of a father could still bloody well go straight to hell. As he stalked from the chamber, Julian comforted himself with that thought.
Clara tried not to flinch at the sound of Julian slamming the study door. She wished, not for the first time, that she was able to read his shuttered expression and grim gaze with absolute certainty. She thought she’d seen a hint of concern, a spark of caring. Along with something else. The rigid set of his jaw bespoke…what? Irritation? Dissatisfaction?
So much of Ravenscroft remained an enigma to her. At the moment, he was doing his best to keep her at arm’s length. But persistence had always been one of her best qualities. She could meet his determination with some of her own.
Her father’s beloved face drew her attention from her husband’s abrupt departure. Lines of apprehension carved grooves in his forehead and bracketed his mouth. She wondered if he remained this grim as a result of her marriage.
He dispelled her curiosity by breaking his silence. “Clara, tell me the truth. Are you happy? Ravenscroft does not treat you with disrespect, does he?”
Once again the specter of Julian’s reputation had returned. She wanted to rail against the unfairness of it, that others’ judgments of him should always be colored by his past. Somehow, she’d acquired an inexplicable sense of defensiveness on her husband’s behalf. She longed to banish the sadness she sensed in him forever.
Clara met her father’s gaze now unflinchingly. “I’m happy, Father. Truly. Lord Ravenscroft has been a model husband.”
Well, perhaps not entirely a model, she inwardly amended. To be sure, they had much yet between them that would need ironing. Perhaps even mending. Her reaction to Ju
lian confused her as much as the man himself did. She had never known a man as dangerous to her inner balance. He’d had her hopelessly off kilter from the moment she’d entered his study and he’d approached her, as cagey as any predator. She didn’t know where she stood. Didn’t know what the future held in store for them.
But despite all that, telling her father she was happy was not prevarication. For with Julian, she felt as happy and at home as she’d ever been in England. Being his wife would not always be easy, but it was the path she’d chosen. The path that was right for her. She didn’t regret her decision, and she knew that in time they could find happiness together.
Her father’s lips compressed into a tight line of disapproval, as though he weighed his next words. Perhaps he’d anticipated an outpouring from her of how miserable she was in her new role. His undisguised distaste for Julian had not gone unnoticed. She’d been hoping he may have softened. But he had not. He wasn’t brandishing a pistol on this occasion, but his mien was forbidding enough without it.
“Our doors are always open to you,” he said at last. “Should you desire to leave him, Clara, you have a home with myself and Lady Bella.”
His obvious displeasure and distrust of Julian nettled her on her husband’s behalf. “Thank you, Father, but why do you insist on believing that I made such a great error of judgment that I shall need to one day retreat back to you?”
Her father made a sound of exasperation deep in his throat. “Forgive me if I believe you acted impetuously in your decision to marry a known blackguard who compromised you so that he could eliminate his debts with your dowry. He knew I’d consent to nearly any of his terms to save you from ruin and see you settled, the blighter.”
Guilt settled over her, heavy as a boulder. How had it not occurred to her that part of her father’s poor opinion of Julian was due to her subterfuge? She had to tell him the truth, to unburden herself.
Clara placed a hand on her father’s coat sleeve in an imploring gesture. “Father, there’s something I must confess to you. Marrying Lord Ravenscroft was my idea.”
Her father’s brows snapped together. “The hell you say it was. Don’t try to protect him, darlin’.”
Ah, if only she were half the angel her father imagined her to be. But she was not. She was wicked and willful and rebellious. Impetuous too. Lord have mercy, it seemed she had not many virtues in her possession at all if she were to truly consider the matter.
“I’m not trying to protect him,” she told her father gently, almost in the tone she’d use to inform someone that a death had occurred. For she feared his reaction to her full revelation. He would be angry and hurt. Disappointed in her. But regardless, she must tell him everything. “Coming here to his home that night, attempting to be compromised, it was all my idea. I’d never met the earl before that day but I knew of his reputation, and I thought he’d make an excellent foil for my plan to return to Virginia. I offered to pay him to marry me and then annul our union and let me go home.”
Her father’s face went ashen. “Damn it, Clara, tell me you’re lying. Why the hell would you do something so foolish?”
Yes, she had to admit, her actions had been foolish indeed. How naïve of her to ever imagine she could’ve made a man like the Earl of Ravenscroft do her bidding. “You told me you wouldn’t allow me to return to Virginia, that even after I’d reached my majority you wouldn’t settle a penny on me. I didn’t want to remain here. It seemed the best means of circumventing you.”
“If all this is true, why not tell me? You could have spared yourself so much.” He waved his hand in a broad, encompassing gesture. “You could have spared yourself this. If I’d realized you wanted to go back to Virginia so much you’d shackle yourself to a devil like Ravenscroft, I’d have sent you there myself.”
His angry words gave her pause, but she didn’t believe for a moment that he would have mildly acquiesced to sending her to Virginia on her own. He was too protective of those he loved. “Julian is not the devil you think he is, Father.”
“Yes he damn well is.” His face contorted. “Did he or did he not compromise you that night? I saw the two of you with my own eyes, Clara. His conduct was not that of a gentleman.”
Perhaps not. She winced. “He didn’t…that is to say, I allowed you to believe he had lured me to his home and compromised me because it facilitated my objective. If I had told you the truth, you wouldn’t have allowed me to marry him.”
Her father shook his head, clearly trying to force his mind to accept everything she’d just told him. There it was, her secret laid bare. She was not a good daughter. She wasn’t sure she knew how to be. But she did love her father, and she did care for her husband, and she knew a rush of relief at confessing the truth.
“That lying whoreson.” His tone had grown positively murderous now. “He looked me in the eye and told me there was a possibility you carried his child. Fed me some tripe about you two falling in love and then demanded two hundred thousand pounds and a hundred thousand in North Atlantic Electric stocks. By God, don’t tell me you’re too blind to see that man for the fortune hunting vulture he is.”
Clara had no excuse to offer. It seemed that she and her husband were not so very different. When they wanted something, they were dogged in their perseverance. “He’s not a vulture.”
“I’m taking you home with me. This is insupportable. The blackguard dares to put you in danger, keeping you here while someone is out to kill him.” He clenched and unclenched his fists. “I’ll spare the villain the trouble and kill him first. I’m of half a mind to gut him like a hog for his manipulations.”
Lord. This was fast unraveling. “I don’t want to go home with you, Father.”
“I don’t give a goddamn. I’m your father and it’s my duty to protect you, especially if you refuse to protect yourself.” His blue gaze snapped with fury.
“I won’t go with you,” she denied again, for she was where she belonged. Nothing in her life had ever felt so simply, preciously right. Yes, there was no other word for it except one. One she’d refused to think up until this moment as she faced her father’s paternal wrath and protectiveness.
One simple and terrifying word. An emotion as powerful as it was bewildering.
“I’ve fallen in love with Lord Ravenscroft,” she blurted. “I won’t leave him.”
ulian stared into the darkness and willed his fierce arousal to abate. His head ached with a low, steady throb, a needling reminder that he wasn’t entirely healed of his injury. That alone should’ve been enough to keep his mind from Clara, who was likely sleeping the slumber of the innocent just next door while he tortured himself with images of her lovely curves. Now he knew the precise color of her nipples. A lush, warm pink, sweeter than any rose he’d ever seen abloom. Now he knew her taste as intimately as he knew her musky citrus scent. And he bloody well knew how it felt to sink inside her tight, wet heat and lose himself.
It felt like pure heaven on earth, that’s what.
And if the sentiment rendered him nothing more than a mooning imbecile, well, it couldn’t be helped. For she had infected him, had ravaged his body and his mind as completely as any disease. He could only think of her. Of wanting her. No, damn it, more than that. Of needing her.
Ah, it was true. He needed Clara more than he’d ever needed anyone or anything in his life. He needed her more than money, more than liquor, more than sin. I’m here because I care, she’d said to him, earnest and without artifice. She cared for him. The idea had been so laughable—that a lovely innocent as pure and true as Clara could somehow care for a reprobate like him—that he’d been ill equipped to deal with his reaction.
So he’d made an ass of himself, settling into his familiar mantle of aloof apathy. He’d pushed her away. He regretted his actions now as he waited for sleep to claim him. He wished he could be a man worthy of her love, one who had not given away so many pieces of himself that almost nothing remained.
But sleep didn’t seem to
be forthcoming. He’d damn well tried everything to lose himself into the abyss of slumber. He’d tossed back a not insubstantial quantity of whisky before settling into bed. He’d taken a tepid bath in an effort to cool his ardor. He’d turned up a lamp and settled on a volume of particularly dry poetry. He’d turned the lamp back down and tossed the volume aside.
He’d used his own hand to reach his release twice already.
Nothing he’d tried thus far had been effective. He was still hard as marble, his thoughts consumed by her, wishing he hadn’t decided to let her rest for the night without taking her again. Surely she was sore. She’d been a virgin. He’d done his best to blunt the pain but he’d still torn into her like a savage, and there’d been blood enough to show that their lovemaking hadn’t been entirely pleasant for her.
Tomorrow he would make it up to her. Tomorrow, he’d woo her and charm her, strip her bare and touch and kiss and lick every beautiful bit of her. Tonight, however, was another matter. Tonight, he was tortured and frustrated, feeling like an amnesiac who’d woken within a strange body, uncertain of who he was and how he ought to act.
To hell with trying to sleep. He threw back the bedclothes and turned the lamp up, searching for the trousers he’d discarded in one of his fitful attempts to distract himself. As he pulled them up over his hips, an odd sound cut into his heavy musings.
Very odd indeed. It was muffled and high, almost like a cry. A series of muted thumps followed the sound. His mouth went dry as a surge of unadulterated fear surged up his spine and exploded into a thousand jagged splinters. For a moment, he remained still, listening, praying he was wrong, that he was overreacting. Another high, shrill sound split the night.
A muffled scream.
Jesus, it was Clara’s muffled scream.
Heart hammering in his chest, he ran to the door adjoining their chambers. The knob refused to turn. Locked, goddamn it. Who had the key? Did he? Damn it, the chamber had been empty for so long, and his servants were so sparse, that only God knew where the key could possibly be. There wasn’t time to ring for a servant. There wasn’t time to try the hall door. Clara was within, and she needed him.
Restless Rake (Heart's Temptation Book 5) Page 20
