Rushed to the Altar (36 page)

His mouth found her core, his tongue teased the hard little nub of flesh, and he held her, his cheek pressed to her belly, his hands firm on her hips, as the storm ripped through her.

She fell forward, her hands resting on his shoulders, her body curved in surrender, until he rose to his feet and moved her backwards until the edge of the bed caught her behind her knees and she fell onto it. He stood over her, stripping off his clothes, his hungry gaze fixed upon her body, naked except for her gartered
stockings. For some reason he found the erotic allure of those white silk stockings and the black lace garters against the cream of her nakedness more powerful than anything he could imagine.

He came down to the bed beside her, kneeling, his penis hard and demanding. Clarissa took him in her mouth. She let her tongue circle the moist tip as her hand moved up and down the shaft. His breathing quickened, his hips moved, and she reached both hands between his thighs, stroking his balls, grasping the hard muscular curve of his backside as her mouth moved along his penis, her lips pressing firmly, her teeth grazing.

It was a shock when he spoke, his voice strangely husky. “Turn over.”

She moved her head away from his engorged flesh, her eyes glinting with excitement, and rolled onto her belly. He slipped his hands beneath her belly and lifted her onto her knees. His hands gripped her hips and she gave a little gasp as he entered her. She had a moment to think that the feeling was quite different from this position, and then coherent thought was no longer possible as the exquisite spiral of sensation coiled ever tighter. His hands were hard on her hips, holding her tightly, and she rocked on her knees to meet his thrusts, her cries of delight muffled in the coverlet. And when it was over, she rested her forehead on the bed and fought for breath as wave after wave of sweetness flooded her loins.

Jasper kissed the nape of her neck, his body molded
to her damp back as he came back to his own reality. There was something about making love with an enigma that transcended the ordinary, he reflected with an inner smile. Slowly he disengaged and rolled onto his side, letting his hand rest on her bottom.

After a minute, Clarissa turned onto her side to face him. She rested her cheek on her arm and with a free hand touched his face. “I still seem to be flying around the room in little pieces. Do you think they’ll all come back together again eventually?”

“I certainly hope so,” he responded with appropriate gravity, belied by the dancing smile in his eyes that matched her own.

It was on the tip of Clarissa’s tongue to ask him how many other positions he knew for this delightful activity, but she bit her tongue in the nick of time. A whore would surely know everything there was to know.

“What were you going to say?”

“Nothing,” she denied. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

The smile stopped dancing in his eyes and he became reflective. “Why do I so often think that you’re not telling me the whole truth, Clarissa?”

“I can’t imagine.” She sat up on the edge of the bed, so that he could see only her back. “You know everything relevant about me. Everything relevant to this game we’re playing.” How she wished she could turn to him, tell him everything, but there was too much at stake. She had to keep up the lies for Francis’s sake. But
it was tearing her apart; every time she had to come up with yet another lie, another twist to the fabrication, she seemed to lose a little bit of herself, her essential integrity.

Jasper pursed his lips. Once again he wanted to shake her, tell her that the game was no longer the point, demand that she admit she understood that. But instead, he swung out of bed and began to dress. “We’re going to pay a visit this afternoon.” He wandered over to the armoire. “Let’s see what you should wear.”

“A visit to whom? Not your uncle again, I hope.”

“No.” He opened up the double doors and examined the contents. “Lady Mondrain; you saw her at the theatre last night.”

“And will you present me as your mistress?” Their lovemaking had been spoiled and Clarissa felt dejected, out of sorts.

“I won’t need to.” He took out a driving dress of rich dark brown velvet. “This, I think.”

“You mean they’ll automatically assume it?” She watched with little interest as he laid the garment over a chair.

“Of course. But these things do not need to be spoken. While they’re not spoken, they can be ignored. It’s much more comfortable all around, if they’re ignored.”

“And if . . . when I become your wife, they’ll still be ignored?”

“Certainly. The marriage will be a quiet affair, discreetly noted in the
Gazette.
”

“And your uncle will be satisfied with that? Aren’t you supposed to shock society?”

“No, only the family,” he said with a wry smile. “Uncle Bradley doesn’t give a fig for society, but he wants to rub the family’s nose in the dirt, as they’ve tried so often to do to him.

“Besides,” he added, giving her a covert glance, “your position as my wife will be much more comfortable if society is able to ignore the truth. Of course, there’ll be some holdouts, some sticklers, but I have every hope, my dear, that in time you’ll win them over.”

“In time?” She stood up slowly. “But this marriage is not to last.”

“Why?” he said, looking at her directly. “It doesn’t have to be annulled, Clarissa. Not if we don’t wish it.”

She swallowed, tears pricking behind her eyes. She couldn’t think of anything she’d like more than to spend the rest of her life with this man. He completed her. When she was with him she felt whole, as if all the little disparate bits that made the whole Clarissa Astley were fitted neatly together. When he wasn’t with her, she was bereft, lonely. But without giving him the truth, she couldn’t possibly marry him except as a charade. She couldn’t live a lie for the rest of her life. After they were married and Francis was safe, she would tell him the truth, but that would be the end of any feelings he would have for her. How could he love someone who had deceived him just to achieve her own goal? It would be different if he had deceived her, but he had never been anything but honest.

Jasper waited for an answer, and when he didn’t get one, he reached for the bellpull. Maybe he was wrong and she didn’t feel what he did. If she didn’t there was no point hoping she would confide in him. He’d pressed as far as he wanted to. He didn’t know whether anger or disappointment was uppermost as he said curtly, “Sally will help you dress. I’ll wait in the drawing room.”

He left her and went into the drawing room, waiting until he heard Sally enter the bedchamber. Then he left, going downstairs and into the kitchen.

Mistress Newby nearly dropped the trivet she was carrying from the range to the table when his lordship appeared in her kitchen. “Oh, lord love us, m’lord. What can we do for you? Sally’s gone to Mistress Ordway.”

“I am aware, Mistress Newby.” His gaze fell on Frank, hovering near the back door. “My business lies with this young gentleman.”

“Lord, what’s the lad done, sir?”

“Nothing, to my knowledge,” Jasper said. “But I’d like a word.” He approached the child, who looked ready to run. “Let’s go into the yard, Frank.” A hand on his elbow, and he had the boy through the door and into the enclosed yard.

Frank looked up at him, his eyes scared. “You don’t like me.”

“I don’t know you. I’m not so unreasonable I dislike on sight, child.” Jasper tilted the boy’s face with a finger under the rounded chin. The eyes were hazel rather than jade, the hair brown rather than titian, but a ray of sun
caught a glint of gold in the thick thatch. The features were still childishly unformed, but the bone structure was there, the determined line of the jaw, the broad forehead under the widow’s peak.

Everything about the child shouted breeding, despite his slovenly speech. Just as everything about Clarissa bespoke breeding and education.

“Sally said you don’t like little boys.”

“I can’t imagine why Sally should consider herself qualified to make such a statement.” He frowned, wondering how the maid could have come up with such an idea. In general he neither liked nor disliked children. “As it happens I have nothing against small boys unless they annoy me. How old are you, Frank?”

“Ten.” Francis tried to twitch his chin away from the earl’s grip. The intent scrutiny made him very uncomfortable.

What was the child to Clarissa then? Certainly no scrap of human flotsam rescued by chance from the street. He could probably force the truth out of the boy, but that would do his cause no good at all. Clarissa clearly adored Frank, whoever he was, and whatever had happened to reduce a sturdy boy to this pathetic scrap of humanity had certainly been brutal. He needed no more coercion in his short life. If he was going to coerce the truth from anyone it was going to be Clarissa. But he had one piece of the puzzle in place now. Frank’s presence in his house was no accident.

“Very well.” He released his grip and Francis raced back to the kitchen. Jasper watched his departure with a half smile. He had a sudden memory of himself at the same age, fleeing the wrath of his grandfather’s head gardener after he’d stripped the raspberry canes one glorious June afternoon.

Chapter Eighteen
 

Luke Astley dismounted in the yard of the Coach and Horses in the small town of Sevenoaks. He looked around impatiently. A knot of men were throwing dice over by the horse trough and it took a few minutes before they acknowledged the rider’s arrival in the yard. One of them stood up reluctantly and came over to Luke.

“You puttin’ up at the inn, sir?” He sucked on a wisp of hay as he took the reins of Luke’s horse.

“Probably,” Luke said. “See he gets a bran mash and a good rubdown. I’ve ridden him from London.”

“Aye, looks like it too,” the man muttered, running a hand down the animal’s damp neck. The horse was sweating and breathing heavily. He’d clearly been ridden hard.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Luke demanded, bristling.

The groom shrugged, spat his wisp of hay onto the cobbles at his feet, and led the horse towards the stables.

Luke cursed his impudence as he strode to the inn
door. He knew he had ridden the horse hard for longer than the animal could comfortably handle, but he hadn’t the money to change his mount halfway through the journey, and by the same token he didn’t want to pay for an extra night on the road.

The landlord came out of the taproom, greeting him with a bow. “Welcome to the Coach an’ Horses, sir. How can we serve you this evening?”

“Dinner,” Luke commanded curtly. “I’ll take it in the ordinary.”

“Aye, sir, there’s a toothsome rabbit pie in the oven.” The landlord opened the door to the common dining parlor, where a group of men were already seated at a round table, drinking ale. “Dinner’ll be on the table in ten minutes, sirs.” The landlord bowed Luke into the parlor and returned to the taproom.

Luke nodded at his fellow diners and took a seat. He poured himself a tankard of ale from the pitcher on the table.

“You come far, sir?” one of the men inquired. He had the look of a farmer in homespun britches, leather waistcoat, and heavy riding boots.

“From London.” Luke buried his nose in the tankard.

“Oh, aye? Long ride that. ’Tis market day in Sevenoaks, so we’re takin’ our dinners afore goin’ home,” the farmer offered. “You goin’ far?”

Luke shook his head. “Not tonight. I’m heading for Shipbourne in the morning. Visiting some friends there.”

“Oh, aye.” One of his fellow diners looked up from his own tankard. “I heard tell there was some trouble, Shipbourne way.”

Luke looked sharply at him. “What kind of trouble?”

The man frowned. “Summat to do wi’ a missing lass. One of the gentry folk.” He shook his head. “Can’t rightly remember.”

The conversation was interrupted by the landlord’s arrival with the promised rabbit pie. He set it in the middle of the table. “There you go, gents. Best rabbit pie this side of Canterbury. An’ there’s a suet puddin’ to follow, better’n any your mams ever made, I’ll wager.”

Luke waited impatiently while his companions helped themselves before saying, “There’s the squire’s family in Shipbourne—Artley? Ashby? Something like that.”

“Astley, that’s it,” the farmer declared, slurping gravy. “Aye, I think ’twas that lass what’s gone missing. Quite a brouhaha, there was. Talk of setting the runners onto it.”

“
Was
—is she back then?” He buttered a piece of bread lavishly.

The man shrugged. “Not as far as I know . . . but I haven’t been that way in a while. Anyone else know?” He glanced interrogatively around the table.

“The housekeeper’s a friend of my missus,” a man offered. “Last I ’eard the lass had still not turned up. They was talking of draggin’ the village pond.”

Luke nodded.
Where the hell was she then?
If she hadn’t come home with Francis, then it stood to reason
they were still in London. But how was he to find them? Perhaps she had written to Danforth or to the doctor.

He spent a restless night at the inn and left first thing next morning, riding the short distance to the village of Shipbourne. The squire’s stately manor house stood at the end of the main village lane, surrounded by a redbrick wall. Iron gates gave entrance to the long driveway that led straight to the long, low, thatched-roof house. Everything seemed in order, the lawns well tended, the flower beds free of weeds, the shrubs neatly trimmed. But there was a strange air of desolation about the place, as if it was empty, although of course it was not. A full staff of servants kept it running smoothly.