Miss Debenham's Secret: A Husband Hunters Club Book (5 page)

Clarissa smiled. “That’s right, I am. Clarissa Debenham.”
The girl hesitated a moment more and then burst out with, “I always wanted to learn to read and write, but my Ma couldn’t spare me. I had to help with the farm, and then . . . well, I missed out.”

Clarissa gave her a thoughtful look. “You know, I can help you to learn. If you really want to? We could meet once a week, if you could manage it, and I could set you lessons to do at home. Or here. I’m sure the inn-keeper wouldn’t mind, he seems a nice man. Would you like that?”

The girl looked amazed at first and disbelieving, then her expression changed to one of hope. “Oh yes,” she whispered, “I would.” She hesitated and then said shyly, “I would like that very much.”

  “Good. Then come and visit the school in Lyme and we can see about getting you started with your reading and writing, Annie.”

Downstairs, wearing a homespun brown dress and clogs, she found Alistair in a jacket and trousers which looked rather small, borrowed shoes which looked rather big, and a grin on his face.

“How the mighty are fallen,” he laughed, when he saw her.

“I am not so mighty as you,” she said primly, “so I have not fallen as far.”

That made him laugh again.

The inn keeper seemed keen to help in any way he could and gave a little speech about the debt England owed to its navy. “For without you we’d all be under Napoleon’s rule,” he declared. He brought them some hot stew, full of vegetables, with crusty bread to one side, and a jug of the local beer. Clarissa found she was starving. They ate in companionable silence, and when they had finished they sat by the fire and warmed themselves while outside the sun gave way to some rain.

“We will be late getting back,” she said, peering anxiously toward the window. “My father will be worried.”

Alistair had his own thoughts on that—Debenham deserved to worry about his daughter, it would do him good—but he agreed they must start back as soon as the rain eased. “I’m sure he will understand,” he soothed her.

But he doubted it and knew from the expression on her face that so did she.

Outside the rain was getting heavier, sending up little splashes from the puddles already on the ground. The sky was low and dark grey and there was no sign that the weather would be clearing soon.

“It can’t be helped,” Alistair said, stretching out before the fire. “Might as well rest while we can.”

Clarissa sighed and sat beside him, placing her own stocking feet beside his on the hearth. It was lovely and warm and the heat began to soak into her chilled body, relaxing her. She smiled at her companion and found him watching her through half closed eyes. Suddenly he reached to take her hand in his, in that impulsive way he had, and turning it over he kissed the centre of her palm.

“I’m sorry things turned out like this.”

His lips were warm and sent a tingle right through her, an achy feeling that she had never felt before. At least, not until he’d kissed her on the sand earlier.

“It isn’t your fault,” she said breathlessly.

His eyes met hers and then slid down over her cheek, fixing on her lips. Slowly he leaned forward, giving her time to stop him, but Clarissa did not want to stop him. She did not want that at all.

His mouth was warm. Sensual. She let his lips brush against hers and then felt the tip of his tongue sliding against the crease of her lips, as if to tempt her into opening them to his gentle invasion. Her body hummed with sensation and yet at the same time she was languorous. Weak with longing.

She didn’t remember moving, and didn’t remember his lifting her, but suddenly she was on his lap, in his arms, their mouths joined in long, delightful kisses.

Alistair’s body was lean and hard with muscle and so much bigger than hers. She’d wanted to burrow into him from almost the first time she’d met him and now she wrapped her arms about his neck, feeling the soft texture of his hair, the slight roughness of his beard against her cheek, the spicy male scent of him.

“Clarissa,” he murmured, and his voice saying her name was like a spur that made her want to go further, to do things she had only heard whispered about. Or dreamed about. She was an innocent, it was true, but she was aware Alistair was an experienced man. He could teach her. He could be her first lover.

Clarissa felt daring. Reckless. At this moment nothing else mattered but being with Alistair.

CHAPTER NINE

Alistair didn’t know how far things might have gone. He had the uncomfortable feeling that they might have gone very far indeed. With such a delightful bundle in his arms, the scent of her skin and her soft hair, left loose about her shoulders to dry, and the warm wantonness of her kisses . . . well, he’d forgotten he was supposed to be a gentleman.

But he was being purposefully obtuse. This was more than just male lust. Clarissa had wormed her way into his heart in a way no other woman ever had. He wanted her, despite all his protests to the contrary, and he wanted to put his stamp on her in the most thoughtless and arrogant of ways, by taking her body with his.

Just as well then that the maid interrupted them.

Vaguely he heard the door open and a soft female gasp, followed by the rattle of crockery on a tray, and the door closing again. For a moment he chose to ignore it but even with Clarissa’s warm lips clinging to his, her hands tangling in his hair, and her body curled into his, his conscience niggled at him. In the end, reluctantly, he caught her hands firmly in his and stilled them.

For a moment she lay against him, her dark lashes against her flushed cheeks, her breath quick from her parted lips. His kisses had brought colour to those lips and there was a mark on her cheek from his prickly stubble. 

“Clarissa, we cannot,” he said gently, regretfully. “You know we cannot.”

Her eyes opened with an effort, the pupils dark, reflecting his face. He saw that he was flushed too, a desperate look to his face, and his hair was standing on end.

“Alistair,” she said huskily, and then cleared her throat. “I don’t care, really I don’t. I want to be with you. Just once. I want to know what it feels like to be with you.”

Yes, his body told him. Tell her yes. There are rooms here, we can take one, and then you can be with her. You both want to.

But the voice was not one he intended to listen to. He only had to remember his father and mother, and how they had been carelessly swept away into a life of deep unhappiness.

Alistair shook his head. He stood up, placing her on her feet at his side. She wobbled unsteadily and he held her until she had her balance. She was soft and he ached to pull her back into his arms, but he forced himself once more to let her go and then he stepped back. Away from her. Putting some distance between them in case he relapsed.

“Blame my principles,” he said with a wry smile. “I make it a practice never to seduce innocents. Especially innocents who are my friends.”

She blinked at him owlishly and then she seemed to shake off her lethargy. She turned away, reaching to smooth her hair, her hands trembling. Of course she would hate him now for seeing her so vulnerable and he didn’t blame her. She had offered him something very precious and he had turned her down.

“I’m not ungrateful,” he began, “I am honoured that you thought that I . . . that you . . .” He stopped as he realised that he was only making it worse.

“Please,” she said quietly. “Don’t say any more.”

He thought there was more he should say, but perhaps she was right. In time they might put this behind them. So instead he went to the window, stooping to peer out. “The rain has stopped,” he said in a false hearty voice. “We’d better start for home.”

“Of course.” She smiled a strained little smile. “I’ll fetch my things.”

And she went out and closed the door quietly behind her.

Alistair sighed and rested his forehead against the cold pane of the window. You could have handled that better, Lieutenant McKay, he said to himself. Now she’ll hate you. But better hatred than a ruined young woman to worry about when he sailed away. Clarissa had her life before her and although she probably didn’t realise it now she would later and be grateful to him for sparing her such complications.

Alistair had no doubts about what sort of husband he would make, even if he didn’t have his parents as role models—he would be away at sea almost all the time and his wife would be left alone, never knowing if he would return or if she would never see him again. In his experience naval widows were usually impoverished, the authorities giving them barely enough to keep heart and soul together. No, he didn’t want that for Clarissa.

She was much better off without him.

CHAPTER TEN

Clarissa was finding it very difficult to look at him. She felt like a silly fool; an innocent fool. He’d rejected her. Twice. Wasn’t that enough for her? And yet, despite her feelings of anger and humiliation, she knew she still wanted him.

Her heart ached in a way it never had before. Even in her worst moments with her father, or Mr. Marly, she had never felt like this.

She wanted Alistair despite the fact that he did not want her and nothing he said or did could change that.

Did that make her even more of a fool? She supposed it did and yet . . . she loved him. And it wasn’t a silly girly sort of love either, it was a strong womanly love, the sort of love that wanted to be with him, to lay with him beside her, to share in all the trials and tribulations she knew would come to them, and not care.

But she could see it was impossible to tell him that.

Alistair had made up his mind. He was going to do the gentlemanly thing, he was going to spare her from making ‘a terrible mistake’ and nothing she said or did was going to change his mind.

She was his friend; that was what he’d said.

The air was chill now that the rain had stopped and she pulled her shawl closer about her with a shiver—it was Annie’s shawl really but the kind girl had pressed it into her hands as they were leaving, insisting it was too cold to be without it. The sky was clear though, and the stars beamed brightly down upon them as Alistair drove the carriage through the night toward Lyme.

They were together and yet she had never felt so alone.

   “Clarissa?”

She was tempted to ignore him, pretend not to hear him, or tell him to be quiet, like the children at school. The thought made her smile, and smiling made her feel a little better.

“Clarissa, I am so sorry. I know I handled things badly, and believe me I would have wanted nothing more than to be with you tonight, but . . . surely you can see how impossible it is?”

Clarissa shrugged her shoulder.

When Annie had given her the shawl, Clarissa had seen from the expression on her face that she had seen them kissing. Would she tell? Probably. Gossip would spread to Lyme in no time at all. It wouldn’t have made much difference if Alistair
had
spent the night in bed with her, because the story would become more lurid with each mile it travelled.

Although she had done nothing so very bad she knew she would still be tarred with the brush of one who had.

“Are we still friends?” he said quietly, and she felt his eyes on her. “Will you forgive me?”

She forced herself to turn with a smile. She didn’t want him to think she was sulking, and nor did she want him to know how much she was in love with him. She had her pride, after all. It was the only thing she did have.

“Of course,” she said brightly, falsely.

He looked uncertain but then he nodded, returning her smile, choosing to believe her. “Good. I am glad, Clarissa.”

They made the remainder of the journey mostly in silence and Clarissa was hoping that her father might have gone to bed. Morning would be soon enough to face his wrath. But when they turned into Clarissa’s street she could see the light in the downstairs window of her cottage and knew with a sinking heart that of course her father hadn’t gone to bed as she’d hoped. He was waiting for her.

They had barely pulled up outside when the door was flung open and there he was, dishevelled, wearing his slippers and his dressing gown, though clearly not just out of bed.

“Clarissa? Where on earth have you been?” He was obviously angry but worried too.

“Mr. Debenham.” It was Alistair who climbed down and went to meet him, while Clarissa composed herself. “I apologise, I am so sorry. This is all my fault. We went sailing and the boat capsized and then it began to rain. We had to stay at the inn until it cleared.”

“Sailing?” Her father’s eyes seemed to pop out of his head. “No one told me anything about sailing.”

Alistair glanced over his shoulder, “Ah no, it . . . it . . .”

But Clarissa couldn’t let him take the brunt of her punishment any longer. “I’m sorry too, father. We went sailing, as Alistair says, and I didn’t tell you because I knew you would object. The boat turned over, but we are quite safe. It was truly lovely, until . . . well until we capsized.”

There was no need to further spoil the memories of the day by telling him she hadn’t known they were going sailing—that it had been a surprise. Her father would be angry but he would be angry anyway, and she wanted him not to think badly of Alistair, who would soon be gone from her life forever. What her father thought of her was of no importance, not now, not ever again. Having spent most of her life trying to please him suddenly she realised she no longer cared what he thought.

“A daughter of mine . . . how could you . . . Don’t you realise what will be said? . . . Go inside. This instant. Wait for me in the parlour. I haven’t finished with you.”

She hesitated but Alistair nodded and she went, head high, back straight, her face red from the humiliation of her father’s behaviour. He was right, of course; her reputation would be ruined but she didn’t need him to tell her that. Tears stung her eyes and slid down her cheeks.

Outside she could hear raised voices, mainly her father’s, and after a moment the sound of the horse and carriage leaving. She stood with her back to the parlour, staring out of the window and seeing nothing, until she heard her father’s steps approaching.