Darker Than Love (3 page)

Kitty wiped her forearm across her nose and looked up at him, her lower lip trembling.

‘But, sir,’ she wailed, ‘we haven’t got one any more.’ Her voice trailed off into great heaving sobs.

‘She’s quite right, Charles,’ said Alicia placidly, stroking damp strands of hair from Kitty’s tear-streaked face.

Charles glowered at his wife. ‘And whose fault is that?’ he bellowed.

Alicia sighed and placed a consoling arm around Kitty’s shoulders. ‘What’s done is done,’ she said. ‘Now go and clean yourself up, Kitty, then tell cook we shall have dinner presently. And chew some fresh mint while you’re at it.’

Kitty bobbed a quick curtsey and scuttled away, avoiding Clarissa’s eyes as she passed her in the doorway.

‘Clarissa dear,’ said Alicia. ‘I’m afraid Lord Marldon
has been delayed. He won’t be coming down until the end of the month.’

Clarissa stood motionless, a wave of desolation sweeping over her. The end of the month? But that was weeks away. Oh, the wait would be intolerable. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her clenched hands, determined not to cry. ‘Oh?’ she said softly, the word catching in her throat.

Her father jerked his head round and opened his mouth to speak. But the words were unforthcoming and he simply stared at her, his eyes wide with astonishment. ‘What the …?’ he began.

‘Charles,’ said Alicia in a cautionary tone. ‘Keep calm. She’s a woman now. Remember?’

‘A woman?’ he spluttered. ‘God damn it, I can see that. The barefaced monkey’s got her wares out in a fine old display. A woman? I do not want my daughter to be a woman. I want her to be, for God’s sake, a lady. Do you hear?’

Alicia laid a gentle hand on his arm and he shook it off with a snort of disgust. ‘This isn’t the Haymarket, my girl,’ he bellowed at Clarissa. ‘This is your father’s house. Get upstairs. Get something decent on. I’ll not dine with a harlot.’

Clarissa flew, unshed tears blurring her vision. Her father railed after her. She was a strumpet and a fool. Those clothes were for men with no imaginations, didn’t she know that? And Marldon, damn him, he had imagination enough for a score of men.

Reaching the calm of her bedroom, Clarissa slammed the door shut and leant against it, breathing rapidly. Oh, her father’s insults were cruel and ill-timed. How could he have said such dreadful things when already she felt perfectly terrible? The end of the month? It was only the first week of June. She kicked her heel against the wood.

She hoped Lord Alec, whenever he chose to arrive, would be more appreciative of fashion. She’d spent
hours being primped and preened and it was all for nothing. She couldn’t even wear the gown for supper.

Clarissa turned the key in the lock, dashed away a tear and took several deep, steady breaths. If she could not dress as she pleased, then she would not go down for supper at all. It was a beautiful gown. Both Alicia and Pascale had said so. And it was her colour because her eyes, Alicia said, were all cornflowers and violets at midnight, and the blue silk enhanced their depths. It wasn’t tawdry in the least, and only the most puritanical mind would deem it indecent. Besides, modish women wore things far more revealing. In Regent Street, they paraded in dresses so snug there barely seemed space for underclothes.

She crossed to the cheval mirror. She would be as daring, once her father had gone. She would wear the dress again, and she would order dozens more in the same cut.

Passing her hands lightly over her body, Clarissa considered her figure in the glass. According to Alicia, she had a shape well suited to the new style of gown. Her shoulders were wide and her curves graceful, rather than generous. ‘Statuesque,’ the dressmaker had said.

Her chin tipped up stubbornly. What did her father know? She unlooped several tiny buttons of the bodice, baring the lace trim of her stays. Then she pushed the shoulders of her chemise and gown against her arms and carefully adjusted her breasts. When a hint of rosy nipple was peeping above the lace and her pale flesh was spilling over her corset, she was satisfied.

There, that was more befitting to the insults her father had hurled at her. A little paint and she could turn professional. She would sneak out of the house when the moon was up and join the molls in the glittering heart of London. Turning, she slid her gaze sideways and offered her reflection a coy smile. ‘One gold sovereign, sir,’ she breathed. ‘And you can do with me what you will.’

A wanton thrill shivered through her and she scooped her breasts free from their final restraints. Unbidden, the memory of Pascale’s trespassing fingers flashed in her mind. The insolent maid had sparked a tingling in her loins with her sly and forceful touches. A moment’s irritation tweaked at her before she pushed the thought away.

Closing her eyes, she stretched back her head and smoothed a hand from her slender neck down to her jutting breasts. She palmed the taut, high orbs. The caress was Lord Alec’s. He was kissing her, whispering that she was beautiful, so ready for loving. Fingers teased her nipples, rousing them to hard, prickling peaks. Her sex glowed exquisitely, answering the sensations with a gentle throb. He would surely die of wanting her, he was saying, and, oh, their wedding night was an eternity away. ‘Then take me now, my lord,’ she murmured. ‘No one need ever know.’

Clarissa slipped off her drawers. She moved the mirror, tilting it to reflect the chintz-hung bed, and lay down. The soft mattress dipped beneath her weight, and she dropped one foot to the floor. Raising her other knee she drew back her skirts, surrounding her open thighs in a foaming nest of white guipure lace and indigo ruffles.

The image of her secret place was enchanting. Against her evening finery, it was all the more naked. Fringed with black curls, it was a dusky flower, pouting brazenly and gleaming at its crimson heart. She traced her hand down her bended leg, gliding from silken stocking to silken skin. It could be, she thought, that her husband could not control his passions. He had thrown her on to the bed, too impatient to allow her the time to disrobe.

She twined her fingers in the crisp dark hair of her mons and sighed heavily. Oh, why hadn’t he come tonight? She should be chatting amiably to him now and he should be smiling at her with his deep-brown eyes.
His eyes would be brown, she decided. And so would his hair.

Her head dropped back on to the pillows and she trailed her fingertips over the contours of her breasts. Her other hand dipped to the swollen petals of her lips and eased them apart. She stroked along the hot, satiny crevice then pressed at the scrap of tender flesh above. A gentle moan escaped her lips as sensation, rich and fierce, flared in her groin. Beneath her rolling fingertip the hard little bead swelled to erection and pulsed insistently.

Downstairs the dinner gong clanged dully. Clarissa tensed. Would someone come for her when she didn’t appear? She listened for the sound of footsteps, her finger gently rocking. But no, there was nothing.

Lifting her hips, she drew moisture from her split dewy crease and swirled it over the inflamed knot of her clitoris. With a quick, light friction, her fingers rubbed. Her breathing shortened to tiny gasps and the air sweetened, heavy with the scent of her need. A quivering anticipation coiled within her.

Arching her back, she drove a finger into her tight heated passage. In just a few months it would be a man she felt there, strong and hungry. She thrust urgently back and forth, her thumb nudging at her pleasure bud. He would slide wet kisses over her eager, naked body. He would take her to heights such as this.

Clarissa stifled a cry as the delicious tension surged and unleashed itself. Her body jerked, the ripples of her crisis spilling through her. Then, all too quickly, they ebbed away. She slumped against the bed, her breasts rising and falling with her shallow breath. An enfeebling glow soothed her body and her mouth curved in a warm, gentle smile.

For some time she lay in abandoned repose, until a soft tap at the door roused her. Alicia called her name. Clarissa straightened her clothes and repositioned the mirror.

‘I must have fallen asleep,’ she mumbled, turning the key. Her stepmother swept in, trailing wafts of lavender perfume.

‘I thought you might be hungry,’ she declared, setting down a salver on the bedside table. ‘Take no notice of your father, my dear. He’s a fool sometimes. As is Lord Marldon for not showing. But take heart. You can have just as much fun – heavens, probably more – without him. Cousin Lucy is quite looking forward to seeing you. She said she’d be delighted to introduce you to London.’

‘But Cousin Lucy’s a scandal,’ exclaimed Clarissa. ‘Father would never agree to it.’

Alicia tapped the side of her nose. ‘Your father need never know,’ she said. ‘We’ll be gone soon enough and then you can do as you wish.’

Clarissa gazed at her stepmother in awe. How was it that she could never allow a problem, no matter how big or small, to exist for more than a moment? Then she frowned.

‘You’ve forgotten something,’ she said wearily. ‘Aunt Hester. She’s hardly Lucy’s greatest admirer.’

Alicia smiled mysteriously. ‘Leave it to me. You may find there’s more to Aunt Hester than meets the eye.’

Chapter Two

BENEATH THE FLARING
gas jets of the Haymarket, theatre-goers spilt onto the pavement. Top hats and jewelled chignons bobbed above sombre suits and shimmering gowns. Arm in arm, elegant couples made their way between the columns of the portico to step into awaiting carriages. Others strolled away in a sea of frothing silks, up to Piccadilly or down to Pall Mall.

Lucy Singleton, recognising a handsome face, smiled with downcast eyes then quickly resumed the conversation with her tawny-haired companion.

‘And what is more,’ she breezed, ‘I hear she is to attend Octavia’s ball.’

Sir Julian Ackroyd glanced back at the crowd. ‘Who is?’ he asked vaguely.

‘Why, Miss Eulalie Crane, the American heiress!’ Lucy tapped his chest with her closed fan. ‘I see your attention is wandering, Julian. Can your Parisian whores truly be so memorable?’

‘Not at all,’ he replied equably. ‘I was simply wondering who the young swell was. The one who deserved such an alluring smile.’

‘Ah, him!’ Lucy adjusted her boa and pulled her black velvet mantle over her arm. For a brief moment she
thought he might be jealous but then she remembered this was Sir Julian. He was never anything other than mildly curious.

‘Nothing of present interest,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid he’s now wed. Like you, dear Julian. But, unlike you, he’s a tiresomely faithful husband.’

‘I see. Then that explains the frosty glare you received from his lady friend.’

‘Did I? Oh, how I should like to reassure her. “He is truly devoted to you, Mrs Wife,” I would say. “Why, the last time he bed me was on the eve of your nuptials. After that, nothing!”’

‘What?’ exclaimed Julian in mock horror. ‘Not even a stolen kiss? I can barely believe it.’

‘Well, maybe just a small farewell between the ceremony and the honeymoon. It was of no consequence.’

‘Then I’m sure she’d be much assured. A husband able to resist the charm of Mrs Singleton shows true fidelity indeed.’

‘Precisely! And is not Mrs Singleton quite irresistible tonight?’ Lucy knew she was. With a cluster of blonde ringlets hanging from her flower-entwined topknot, and dressed in her new gown of lilac taffeta, she had caught many an admiring eye. And her daringly low décolletage had not gone unnoticed by Julian.

In the privacy of their box, he’d spent a great deal of Act Three printing kisses on her bare shoulders and neck. In Act Four his hands had strayed beneath her skirts as far as her thighs, and by Act Five his fingers had played deliciously within the crotch of her silk drawers. She hoped no opera glasses had been trained on her face at the time.

‘Quite irresistible,’ agreed Sir Julian, drawing to a halt and turning to face her. Beneath the lurid glare of a street lantern he looked down at her, his china-blue eyes narrow with desire, and pressed her hand to his lips.

‘Then am I to have my
cadeau
from your bawdy jaunt?’
asked Lucy. ‘I fear the suspense will kill me before long. Won’t you give me just a tiny clue?’

‘Very well. I have it about my person.’

‘Goodness! Do you wish me to search you?’ she gasped, trailing her hand down the front of his cape. ‘Here in the street? That would be most indecent of me.’ A passing drunk jostled her and she seized the opportunity to press herself to Julian’s strong, broad body. She clung to him, gazing up with sparkling green eyes.

‘Decency has never been a strong point of yours,’ he said, offering her his arm.

‘I’ll have another clue, if you please.’

They strolled further along the Haymarket. Beyond the windows of the gin palaces, coffee rooms and oyster shops, chandeliers sparkled in enormous rococo mirrors. Revellers from the smoke-filled establishments stumbled out on to the street and, above their din, flower-sellers and sundry hawkers touted their wares. Sir Julian and Lucy, moving closer together, threaded their way through the bustling crowd.

‘It is long and sturdy,’ he said after a moment’s thought.

‘Pah!’ she scoffed. ‘I’ve had that before.’

‘It has the potential for affording you exquisite delights.’

‘So, you have brought me nothing but your cock? Daubed in all the flavours of France, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘
Au contraire, ma chérie.
’ He leant close to whisper in her ear. ‘My cock has a taste for only the finest English honey-pot.’

‘Why, you lie so beautifully.’ She smiled. ‘Then what do you have for me?’

‘What I have, my darling, is something so delightful that you shall have to wait for it.’

Lucy mused on the various options. In the past, Sir Julian had presented her with deliciously lewd books, French chocolates and liqueurs, underclothes from the
finest Parisian fashion houses and, best of all, a magnificent kid-leather dildo. ‘That,’ he’d said, ‘is for the times when I cannot be there to satisfy you.’

She had laughed at those words. Many times she’d made it clear to him that, when he could not be there, she had no shortage of lovers to pleasure her. While Lucy was not averse to lying, her claim was now sadly less accurate than it had been some months ago. At present she had only one other beau, Gabriel Ardenzi, and he’d been somewhat inattentive of late. She would have to find another handsome man, or continue with her teasing half-truths, if she were to keep Sir Julian on his toes. After all, if he could not devote himself to her, then she was certainly not prepared to devote herself to him.