Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (25 page)

That question led to the beginning of the downfall of her joy.

Perhaps Hadrian kept a mistress. She had heard whispers among married women of the strange fascination mistresses held for their lovers but had never heard them mention the particulars of this seemingly magical enthrallment. Now she reasoned it out. If a whore’s goal was the money earned, then a mistress’s was to please her lord. To do so, she would need to be skilled in the things that added and prolonged a man’s pleasure.

She was distracted some fifteen minutes by the methods a woman might use to gain such knowledge. She came to the conclusion that it must be a kind of informal schooling where an inexperienced girl learned from the experienced roué and passed it on to a younger man. And so, from generation to generation the knowledge passed.

A new kind of anxiety that had never before plagued her clawed into Clarissa’s happiness. Was she the recipient of another woman’s expertise? Or was this how the earl treated all his women?

All his women!

Another more convulsive blow to her contentment was struck. It sent her in search through her memory of every look and touch Hadrian had shared with Soltana. Had he been thinking of Soltana when he made love to Clarissa Willoughby? Why had he not noticed the likeness in their kisses? She had no doubt that, blindfolded, she could pick out Hadrian from among a hundred men by his kiss alone. Why did he not suspect the similarity, or did he not care enough to make a comparison?

Another mortal blow to her peace of mind—and sleep.

She had behaved in so forward, nay, in so shocking a manner that she would not believe that when Hadrian had time to think about it, he would be thoroughly astounded, if not appalled. She had allowed him—or had she instigated?—this seduction under his mother’s roof.

She was a near-stranger to him, a widow straight from her mourning. Would he think her so starved for affection and a man’s touch that she would willingly, wantonly have lain in any acceptable man’s arms? How could he possibly be expected to realize that he was the ONLY acceptable man for her?

Thrashing about in the covers, Clarissa began to know regret.

By 4:00
A.M
. she was appalled, dismayed, and horrified by her behavior. By 4:05 she began to pack. By 5:00 she had written a note to the Earl of Ramsbury requesting his appearance at his earliest possible convenience. By 5:15 she was fitfully asleep.

“You cannot mean that?” Shaken out of his self-possession, Hadrian stood slack-jawed before his hoped-for bride to be. “You are refusing my hand?”

Clarissa nodded slowly, watching his expression. He had been prompt to answer her summons. It was not yet noon and here he was. “Do I shock you? I have quite shocked myself these last days. But you need not fear that you shall be compromised by my unorthodox behavior. As I say, I am leaving London today.”

“Just like that? Without an explanation?”

She smiled at him but it was the doubtful smile of one who has gazed into the mirror the morning after. “I did not think any would be needed. We have proceeded in our relation at a pace that would seem to make explanations unnecessary. My feelings for you are strong. If I remained, I could not in good conscience promise that we would not again find ourselves in circumstances not unlike the night before.” He saw her sooty-black lashes flutter with some half-mastered emotion, but her voice remained maddeningly calm. “You need time to rethink your situation. It is only fair.”

Hadrian stared at her, fighting down the urge to simply take her in his arms and kiss away every protest. How composed she was, if a little drawn. Sitting on a chair in the Holton salon, she looked both strong and vulnerable and distractingly desirable. He had come eagerly in answer to her morning’s summons, prepared to renew his offer of marriage. Yet she had just told him that not only was she not ready to marry him but that she was removing herself from the temptation of continuing their association by leaving London.

“You freely admit that you made love with me out of affection and desire,” he said, hoping to draw some sign of her true feelings but she merely nodded. “Yet you refuse my offer of marriage for fear that
I
might feel compromised?”

“How silly it sounds when you put it that way. But yes, if you wish, to save you future sorrow and regret.” She smiled again but her dimple did not appear, so he knew her whole heart was not in it. “When you think of it, we are very nearly strangers. What little you do know could hardly recommend me to you. To most, my conduct alone would put me quite beyond the pale. Then, too, I am a widow. Have you given full thought to the implications?”

He recalled her lying in his arms, her dark eyes reflecting the ecstasy her body had just experienced, and her words,
“I didn’t know!”
He grinned at her. “I am satisfied that need not concern us.” He frowned with a new thought. “Is there a child?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then?”

“You need further evidence? Very well. I am merely the niece of a viscount without a title or the polished manners of a town-bred miss. Nor have I been presented at court. I possess little in the way of personal income. I have no permanent home of my own, no friends, and few acquaintances among those of your circle. I live in London on my aunt’s largess. My income is quite small.”

“I am wealthy enough, I assure you.” He smiled again. If these were her objections, they were as good as wed. “What else?”

“Your family. Despite popular notion, female relatives are often less sentimental than men when it comes to things like fortunes and family connections.”

“You charmed them one and all, and you know it. Jane and
Maman
could talk of no one else at breakfast. They nearly forgot the Tsar. Now, if that is all, I have a few things to say.”

He came and knelt down beside her, taking her hand in his despite her reluctance. “I too have faults. I can be harsh at times, as I live by reason rather than whim. I have moods and possess a short temper, but I have seen that you deal well with it. I know a great deal too much of war, but then you are a soldier’s daughter and understand that more than most. Someday, perhaps, I will tell you of my adventures. But I am ready to settle down.”

He clutched her hand a little tighter. Feeling her pulse quicken, he pushed quickly on. “I warn you that you will be joining a huge family.” His smile turned roguish. “With luck, we will increase it by our own. But I promise that you will not live in
Maman’
s lap. I have a small place in Surrey and the family home in Derbyshire. You will have full rule in both places. Now what do you say?”

“If that were all, I should almost be persuaded.” For the first time she looked away from him. “But there is something else. I am not totally ignorant of events in London shortly before my arrival. You have as good as told me that your feelings were”—she paused, seeking the right word—“engaged elsewhere. You must admit that you were smitten with Princess Soltana.”

“Smitten? ‘Tis an odious word,” he remarked shortly. “I will, however, admit that I found your lovely sister intriguing.”

As he expected, her head jerked up. For the first time since entering the Holton salon, he felt in command of the conversation. “Yes, I guessed. You are half sisters, are you not? The similarity of feature, figure, and manner were too pronounced to lead one to any other conclusion.”

“Soltana and I share a great deal in common,” Clarissa answered carefully. She seemed to be searching his face before she said. “I should not wish one of them to be your affections.”

Caught off guard by her candor, Hadrian felt his cheeks warm, betraying his chagrin that she had been more frank than he was prepared to be. His hesitation gave her leave to continue.

“You knew Soltana for nearly two months,” Clarissa said crisply. “You have known me five days. I would not have thought you a man to attach your feelings easily, and you have confirmed it. Your litany of reasons why we should suit in marriage did not contain one word of love or even affection for me.” She met his now stricken gaze steadily. “Say nothing more. At least you did not lie. You said it yourself. Soltana and I are much alike. You cannot know upon so short a reflection which of us has really engaged your feelings.”

“Did you think of this barrier last night, or only this morning?” he asked testily.

“Afterward,” she answered.

“I see.” He noticed now the lavender smudges beneath her eyes, the signs of a sleepless night. Guilt twinged him. She had had the night to doubt herself and him. He should have insisted—propriety be damned—that he accompany her home. If he had spent the night with her, holding her until dawn, then she would have felt more secure in his constancy as a lover. “My dear Clarissa, what you are experiencing is guilt. It—”

“It is not guilt!” she cut in sharply. She stood up and walked a little away from him, forcing him to rise as well. “I feel no remorse for what we shared. I wanted to be in your arms, to accept what you offered, to share that pleasure. I needed to know … something.”

She paused again, her gaze going slightly beyond him. “You were tender and gentle and quite splendid.” She shifted to face him. “I am not ashamed, and nothing you say will ever make me feel otherwise.”

The frankness of her reply humbled him, for he knew that even if she walked away never to come back, he would not ever think of her as a loose woman, or as one who had lost his respect. “I see that you are implacable and that I must accept your wishes. But I do not like it.”

She shook her head as if trying to dislodge some unpleasant memory. “I do not like it either, but it is for the best.”

“Where will you go?”

“To my aunt in Surrey.”

“May I come to see you?”

“I think it would be better if you did not.”

“Will Soltana be there?”

She bit her lip. “Are you afraid of what she may say?”

In all honesty, he was a little. “I believe that if allowed, I can answer for my conduct.”

She smiled at him, the dimple at last making its appearance. “You seem very certain of yourself. I wonder.”

“If you will not permit me to visit you, how can I know my heart?”

“You will know, my lord. I am persuaded of it.”

“Will you tell your aunt how things stand?”

“I shall not. You may rest easy that your rash proposal will remain our secret, forever if you prefer.”

She sounded as if she were scolding a thoughtless youth in short pants. A flash of anger replaced his good will. “This is a damnable way to treat a man who has asked you marry him!”

“No doubt of it,” Clarissa agreed. “But presently, when you have had a moment to think it over, you will see the wisdom of it. You might even thank me.”

“No, madam, I won’t!” He looked about for his top hat and cane. “Who will accompany you to Surrey?”

“My maid.”

“You may have the use of my traveling coach. Lady Arbuthnott took hers when she left.”

“I must refuse,” she said evenly. “That would only call attention to a situation we both wish to conceal.”

“You
wish to conceal it.
I
wish to publish wedding banns.” He was biting out his words, getting angrier and angrier by the second. He snatched up his articles. “I can see that further conversation will be a waste of breath.” He turned back to her, his face stiff with indignation and hurt. “I begin to think that I made a mistake in coming here this morning. If this is but a sample of how you will treat my affections in future, I shall be on guard.”

“You see?” she said warmly. “You are half persuaded already to think ill of me. Who knows what a few days’ separation will bring?”

“It will bring my temper to a black pitch,” he said and jammed his hat down on his head. Just as suddenly he snatched it off and dropped it on a chair as he took several purposeful strides toward her. “I will not be dismissed like a chastised child!”

Alarmed, she backed a little away. When he caught her in his arms, her eyes widened to show the white all around.
Good!
he thought.
Let her be a little afraid, a little in doubt.
“I could end this foolishness here and now.”

His kiss was hard and commanding, even a little cruel. Locked in his embrace, she felt his anger, his passion, his embarrassment, and his desire. Sucked down into that stirring combination of feelings like a drowning soul, she found and clung to his shoulders, believing that she might slip completely beneath the surface of his stormy desire if she let go.

When he lifted his head, she saw again the smoke of desire in his tarnished-silver-green gaze. “You want me,” he said flatly. “And I shall have you!”

He let her go so quickly she staggered back on weak legs, but he did not seem to notice. He gathered his things a second time, marched to the door, and, pausing, tipped his hat. “Run if you must. ‘Tis a womanly thing to do. But you will hear from me, madam, and soon!” With that he left her.

“Insufferable! Self-important! High-handed! Egotistical! Rude! Bully!”

Potsman heard Clarissa’s tirade through three inches of stout walnut paneling, which made up the salon doors. Moments before he had suffered Lord Ramsbury’s more pungent remarks at close range as the earl stormed through the hallway on his way out. Whatever had occurred within the walls of the salon was far from regular. But then, few things which occurred at Holton House could be considered regular. Lady Arbuthnott had expressly charged him with keeping her fully informed of the relationship between Miss Clarie and Lord Ramsbury.

“Singular!” Potsman murmured. “Positively singular!” He would need to post a letter at once.

“I think you have managed very well, dear. The thing was to keep your head, and you did that admirably.”

Clarissa did not look at her aunt for fear that the truth would be read in her face. She had
not
kept her head, and that was the cause of her present torment. Of course, she had not told her aunt precisely how intimate she and Hadrian Blackburne had been, but she had let it be known that they had shared a few kisses and that subsequently the question of marriage had been brought up. “He will forget about me. No doubt he is scouring England for Princess Soltana even as we speak.”

She glanced resentfully at the pile of letters on the table before her. Some four inches high, the stack comprised a week’s worth of letters posted to Princess Soltana in care of Lady Arbuthnott. The main reason she had not yet looked at any of them was because she feared that at least one was a love letter from Lord Ramsbury—which meant that she would be in tears within a matter of moments of reading the first line.

Heloise had been observing her niece for some three quarters of an hour since her arrival at Dolick Hall. Not once in that time had the girl so much as perched on a chair. Things were going splendidly, to her way of thinking. Ramsbury’s affections were engaged, the question of marriage confirmed it. “You forget one salient point, dear niece.
You
are Soltana. Whatever your muddle-headed earl may be thinking at this moment, you may rest assured that his thoughts are of you.”

“Do you know what he said to me?” Clarissa paused in her pacing, her young face full of indignant ire. “He believes he has guessed Soltana’s origins. He told me he believes that she and I are half sisters.”

“What a clever fellow,” Heloise exclaimed. “After all, you are sisters under the skin, the same skin, no less! What a priceless pun!”

Clarissa frowned in annoyance. “How easily you accept this slap at family honor. In one and the same breath he labeled Soltana a bastard and my father a debaucher of women.”

Heloise’s eyes narrowed. “Has it never occurred to you, Clarie, that your father might not have lived the last twenty years of his life as a monk?”

“Of course I have thought of it … once or twice.”

“Good. Because you are old enough to know a few truths. The widow woman who kept his quarters on the Peninsula, Señora something or another—”

“Señora Cuenca.”

“Yes, she is the one. Did you not think her a handsome woman?”

“Indeed,” Clarissa replied cautiously, recalling the proud, nearly silent woman with coal-black hair and cinnamon-brown eyes who had run her father’s home the five years she lived with him. “She was very good to me, and quite solicitous of Father.”

“So she might be. She was his mistress.”

Clarissa could not prevent a gasp of surprise.

Heloise smiled, her expression kind. “Did you not guess? You wrote me yourself about how heartbroken the señora was with your father’s passing, how she had taken turns with you those last weeks caring for him.”