Rushed to the Altar (24 page)

She sat down, and he slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him. There was something so comfortable, so unthreatening about the position that Clarissa leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder. His hand found the swell of her breast, and a finger lightly teased the nipple beneath the silk of her gown. To her momentary embarrassment she felt the nipple prickle, harden, press against her bodice, but then, when his mouth teased her ear, his teeth nibbled her earlobe, she lost all sense of embarrassment and her body seemed to move and respond to its own music.

He kissed her, his probing tongue demanding entrance, and her lips parted with an involuntary sigh of pleasure, as she tasted the sweetness on his tongue, felt the muscular presence exploring her mouth, dancing with her own tongue, running along her teeth, into the soft flesh of her cheeks, tasting her. Her nipples rose hard and insistent and she half turned so that she was lying sideways across his chest, reaching against him.

He slipped a hand beneath her, lifting her further
onto his lap, turning her fully sideways as he kissed her more deeply and her breasts pressed hard against his chest. She felt a hardness beneath her too, a strange pressure against her hips, and an even stranger sensation in her lower belly, a sinking, plunging feeling that was as delightful as it was strange.

And then reality landed like a bucket of icy water. If she didn’t stop this now, the inevitable would happen, and while part of her at this moment of intense sensation didn’t give a tinker’s dam if she lost her virginity, some cautious little part of her brain that had not succumbed to pure physical need reminded her that if she let this happen, he would know she had been lying. She was a virgin, and losing the maidenhead was a painful and bloody business, or so she’d heard. She would not be able to disguise her virgin state and a virgin was of no use to the Earl of Blackwater. He was already cheating on the bargain and hating it; he would never countenance such a massive fraud as presenting a virgin to his uncle as his converted prostitute. There were whores aplenty who would play the charade for him.

She pushed back from his chest, slithering down onto the sofa again. Her eyes were still unfocused, dreamy with desire, her cheeks pink, her ringlets tumbled, but she forced herself to sit up, to compose herself. “I’d prefer not to rush to inevitable conclusions here, sir. May we slow down?”

He pursed his lips as he reached sideways for his champagne glass. “I have agreed to let you set the pace,
at least for the moment.” He took a sip, regarding her with a degree of puzzlement. “You were as eager as I, then, Clarissa. Why is it so important to delay the inevitable?”

“Anticipation, I have heard, greatly enhances pleasure,” she said, amazed at her boldness. She’d heard nothing of the kind but to her amazed relief he didn’t seem to think she’d said anything strange. She took up her own glass. The bubbles went up her nose and her moment of triumph ended in a mortifying scramble for a handkerchief.

Jasper watched her struggles with the same puzzlement. Something was so badly wrong with this, and he couldn’t for the life of him put his finger on it. She had been within a heartbeat of yielding, her body soft, pliant, ready for his lovemaking, and then something had brought her up as sharply as a curb on a bolting horse.

But his own rampant desire was no longer importunate, and he had time. He would get to the bottom of this puzzle soon enough. And in the meantime he hugely enjoyed her company, when she wasn’t succumbing to a fit of sneezes, coughs, or hilarity. Her tongue was too sharp, her wits too quick, for who and what she was supposed to be. There were too many puzzling strands in Mistress Clarissa’s narrative, too many contradictions.

Whores did not ride, did not offer critical assessments of a man’s driving skills, did not curtsy with all the perfect formality of a debutante at the queen’s drawing room.

And they most certainly did not carry themselves with the composure and occasional arrogance of a woman who knew her place in society, a place that was subservient to no one.

So what had driven her to whoredom? If she was as gently bred as he now believed, how had she ended up in Mother Griffiths’s nunnery?

Chapter Twelve
 

Jasper decided to leave seduction to follow its own course for the time being. They dined companionably and he set himself to find out as much as he could about Clarissa’s past. “Did you grow up in Bedfordshire?” It was a casual question, asked as he passed her a dish of artichokes. “Is that where your family is from?”

Clarissa helped herself to the vegetable, her mind working rapidly. It was time now to come up with a story, a convincing life story that would explain her choice of profession and her presence at 32 King Street. She racked her brain trying to remember what she knew of Bedfordshire, a county of which she had absolutely no experience. Bedford was the county town, that much she did know.

“My parents had a small farm when I was a baby. I don’t really remember much about it. It was in the country outside Bedford. And then something happened, I don’t know exactly what, and my father lost the farm.” She sliced into the breast of capon on her plate, looking up to give him what she hoped was a bleak smile. “My
parents moved to Bedford, where they thought my father could get work, but then the plague came and they both died.”

“How old were you?” He passed her a bowl of crisply roasted potatoes, watching her closely.

She shrugged, taking a potato, hoping that indulging her appetite wouldn’t lessen the poignancy of her tale. “Three or four . . . I was put on the parish and sent to the workhouse. They didn’t work us little ones until we were five or so, then we worked in the kitchens and the laundry, and every now and again well-dressed women would come and we’d be paraded before them and if they took a fancy to a girl they took her on as a maid.”

Jasper’s clear gaze didn’t waver from her countenance as she spoke. “Did that happen to you?”

“Yes, quite quickly. A lawyer’s family in Bedford. The woman wanted a new maid-of-all-work she could train up.” As she spun her tale, she kept in her mind’s eye the image of the little girl, breakfastless, scrubbing the steps with her chapped hands and cheeks on a frigid morning. “There was a housekeeper, who was kind enough, but the mistress was hard.”

“Who taught you to read?”

She looked at him, startled. She hadn’t expected such a question. But of course a woman with the life story she was inventing would probably be illiterate. He knew she could write her own name, but that didn’t necessarily argue for all-round literacy. “How do you know I can?”

He shook his head with a short laugh. “What do you take me for, Clarissa?”

“Not a fool,” she responded, rapidly concocting a convincing explanation.

Jasper was beginning to doubt the truth of that, but he pressed on. “Then answer the question.”

“There was one son, seven years older than I was. He took a fancy to me. At first he teased me because I couldn’t read or write, and then he offered to teach me.” She was warming to her story now, sure of the direction it would take, an embellishment on the tale she’d told Bertha, the baby farmer. “He was sickly much of the time so they didn’t send him to school. He had a tutor and after a time he secretly shared his lessons with me.”

She sat back, taking a sip of wine, astonished once again at how fertile her imagination was proving to be. She would never have thought she had the capacity to tell such convincing tales. A quick glance at her audience revealed no sign that he disbelieved any of this farrago of lies, but no sign that he believed it either. His expression gave nothing away.

She took another mouthful of capon. It was served with an orange sauce that was quite delectable. “You may be an impoverished nobleman, sir, but you keep a fine kitchen.” She poured a little more sauce onto the bird.

He smiled, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. “Your compliments should go to the redoubtable Mistress
Hogarth. She rules the kitchen with a rod of iron. She was our parents’ cook and woe betide me or my brothers if we should fail to do justice to her culinary creations.” He glanced at her now empty plate and flicked an amused eyebrow. “You need have no fears on that score. She will approve of you without reservation.”

Clarissa blushed a little, saying slightly defensively, “I’ve always had a good appetite. Maybe it was because I was always hungry in my early years.”
Stroke of genius.
Who could resist the plight of a famished child?

“No doubt.” Jasper reached across to refill her wineglass. “So, pray continue your tale.”

“Oh . . . well, it becomes a little more difficult to talk about.”

“I imagine it does.” His tone was dry. He leaned back in his chair, idly turning the stem of his wineglass between his fingers, his gaze still resting on her countenance. “What brought you to London, Clarissa?”

She chewed her lower lip, gazing down at her plate. “The younger son, my friend, I thought . . . one night he . . .”

“Raped you.” He filled the pause with the plain, unemotional statement. It was the obvious conclusion to this tale she was spinning and he was conscious of a flicker of disappointment that she hadn’t come up with something more ingenious.

Clarissa nodded and reached for her wineglass. “I found myself with child . . . they threw me out on the street. It was, of course, my fault, not the beloved son’s.” She was beginning to believe the story herself; the bitterness
in her voice sounded utterly genuine. And she realized that, of course, it was a story that so many real women had lived, and she was at this moment experiencing it through their eyes. “I had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. The boy slipped me some money, guilt money, I suppose, so for a while I wasn’t destitute.”

“What happened to the child?”

“I lost it . . . fortunately for both of us.” She glanced quickly across at him, wondering if he was shocked, but his expression was still as calm and unreadable as before.

“I took the stage to London and found a cheap room, but then I lost the child and was ill for several weeks. The money was soon spent on the physician and medicines and then I had nothing to pay for my lodging, or food, or anything.” She stopped, feeling that further embellishment would only detract from the power of the narrative.

“A sad story,” he said. “But not an uncommon one, more’s the pity.” He glanced towards the door as the butler and a footman entered.

Clarissa greeted the conversational break with relief. She felt completely drained of all mental and emotional energy and didn’t think her powers of invention could be stretched to any further gymnastics tonight. She sipped her wine as the first course was removed, replaced with a bowl of Rhenish cream, a plate of apple tartlets, and a cheese pudding.

“Mistress Ordway wishes to send her compliments to Mistress Hogarth,” Jasper informed Crofton.

“Yes, indeed. Pray convey my thanks and my compliments to Mistress Hogarth, Crofton. Rarely have I enjoyed a dinner so much.” Clarissa was behaving quite naturally and missed the effect her warm smile and gracious tones had on the butler, who had never heard a piece of muslin, even one as lovely as this, talk with all the natural ease of a lady of the manor. He glanced at his master, who met his look with an impassive countenance.

“It will be my pleasure, madam.” He bowed and gestured impatiently to the footman, who hastily preceded him from the room.

“What may I serve you?” Jasper indicated the dishes on the table when they were alone once more.

Clarissa took a spoonful of the cheese pudding. “Tell me about the house on Half Moon Street.”

“It’s quite small, but elegant, I believe. The cook-housekeeper will take care of your household needs; Sally is your personal maid. I understand she has a deft hand with a needle and a flatiron, and is quite knowledgeable about the latest hairstyles.”

“You’ve hired this maid already?”

“Some time ago.” He took a bite from a fruit tartlet.

Clarissa frowned. “How? I don’t quite understand. We met only a very short time ago. How could you have hired me a personal maid before we even met?”

He looked at her with a half smile, saying gently, “The house has had other occupants. I hope that doesn’t grieve you, Clarissa.”

Of course. What a fool she was. The house on Half Moon Street was where he kept all his mistresses for the duration of their liaison, and presumably the servants simply took care of whichever mistress was in favor.

“Of course not,” she stated, sipping her wine. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you may rest assured that the house has been furnished specifically for you. There will be no . . . no unfortunate reminders of its previous inhabitant. And my servants are well trained. They serve me and only one lady of the house.”

She managed a smile, but it was not particularly enthusiastic.

“The house will be ready for you tomorrow. My carriage will fetch you and convey you there. I’m assuming you have little in the way of possessions?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“A portmanteau with a few things. Nothing heavy.”