Bound By Temptation (20 page)

“Come along now, Miss Thompson.”

And just like that, he let himself be managed.

Or at least he pretended he did—because he knew now that the step would never have been taken, the words never spoken.

Even as Violet had called out to him, he had known he could not do it.

He might want a young biddable bride, a slim blonde to give him his preplanned children.

Yes, that might be what he believed he wanted.

It was not, however, what he needed.

He knew exactly what he needed. It had only taken one look from his sister up toward her husband, one look as she teased and managed, one look that told of understanding and comfort for him to see all too clearly what he needed.

It was time to go and find her.

Being sick was not pleasant. Clara had forgotten just how unpleasant. Why had she had beets with dinner? She spat into the basin, glad that she had the room to herself. Picking up the pitcher of water, she poured a glass and swished it around her mouth.

She wished it were brandy.

That would wash away the flavor.

She spat again, before carefully rinsing the basin. There was nothing she could do about the lingering odor.

She stared at herself in the mirror.

Big cat’s eyes in a narrow pinched face. Most days she could at least find a glimpse of the beauty others seemed to find there. When she was with Masters, she actually felt the beauty, saw it reflected in his gaze.

Now she just looked tired, tired and dried out. She pinched at her cheeks, trying to draw color into them. A few pink spots appeared, but it would have been a great stretch to call them blooms or roses.

Biting her lips proved slightly more effective. At least they turned red.

She fluffed her hair with her fingers. It sprang obediently into curls. That was good.

She pinched her cheeks again. It would have to do. She would go downstairs and make her farewells. She would explain that she planned to leave on a trip in the morning and that she needed to rise early.

Maybe she wouldn’t even explain.

It wasn’t as if anybody cared.

God, her mouth tasted awful. The ham tartlets and lemonade had not been pleasant on the way down and were certainly not improved by their upward journey.

She was feeling sorry for herself, a whiny, unpleasant girl.

She smiled wryly. She was hardly a girl.

She was a woman, and it was time she acted as one.

Her decision had been made, and it was unseemly to complain, even to herself, about it.

She would go downstairs, make her farewells, and begin her new life. She had nothing to complain about.

It was all as she had chosen.

She swept out of the room just as two other ladies entered. One shot her a strange look.

Was her recent discomfort plain to see?

She really needed that brandy, just a single swish, one taste to sweeten the evening.

She stopped by the door to Gadsworth’s private library.

There was a decanter within. She’d once spent an evening playing chess and laughing with Gadsworth and friends and she knew just where that decanter was.

Opening the door, she stepped in.

She’d have one small toast to her new life.

“W
ill you marry me?” The words that had refused to leave his lips earlier positively jumped from them as he saw Clara enter the room.

She stopped still in her tracks. He watched her eyes widen as they caught sight of him, and then grow wider still as his words filtered into her mind.

“Marry you?” she said, her voice quivering. “Is this a farce? Surely, I did not hear you correctly, or perhaps you expected Miss Thompson.”

“No, I—my words may have been hasty, but they reached their intended target.”

Did her legs shake as she walked and perched on the edge of Gadsworth’s desk? She lifted her large eyes to him, the color reflecting gold in the dim light of the single oil lamp.

“Marry you?” she asked again.

“Is it so strange a thought?” he replied. He was himself aghast that he had asked the question in such a fashion, but he could see he was not as dismayed as she.

She didn’t reply this time, but just sat staring at him. She licked her lips, and he became aware how pale she was. Her skin lacked its usual vitality and even her lips were almost white.

At first he thought it was his question that had so leached her color, but he realized she had looked peaked from the moment she entered the room.

Oh, she still looked beautiful. He expected she could be a hundred years old, covered in manure, and he would still find her radiant. It was something far beyond her physical appearance that caught and held him each time he saw her.

She licked her lips again. It was not the seductive gesture that it often was, but rather one of nerves and discomfort.

“Would you pour me a finger of brandy?” She gestured with her head toward the cabinet from which St. Johns had so recently filled his own glass.

He rose to do so, then paused and picked his own still half-full glass off the table, bringing it over to her.

As he held it out he could see the memory of that first teacup reflected in her eyes. She hesitated and then took the glass, taking a small sip from it. Her mouth avoided the spot where his own lip print lay.

There was a message in both gestures.

She took another swallow and then looked up at him. “I didn’t realize you knew Gadsworth well enough to know where to find the best stash.”

“I don’t, but St. Johns does. He joined me for a
drink before going off to search out Violet. I stayed behind to finish and have a moment’s quiet.”

“And then I arrived.” She set the glass beside her on the table. “Are you serious in suggesting marriage?”

“Yes, I have never been more so.” He had never felt so nervous. He wanted to move closer to her, but something in her glance held him back.

“And what of Miss Thompson? I thought you were planning to ask her, that she was your ideal bride. Did she refuse your suit? Did her father? I know he is a man of high standards, but…”

“No, or yes, or—I had intended to ask Miss Thompson, but I found that I could not.”

She raised a brow.

He continued, “Her father indicated his approval, and Miss Thompson herself gave me reason to believe that she would agree.”

“And how did she do that?”

“Well”—he felt some discomfort now—“she asked me to kiss her.”

Clara pursed her lips. “And did you?”

“Yes, it was not a bad kiss.”

“I take it this happened this evening?”

“Yes, on the terrace.” He should not have told her about the kiss, but it was part of making her understand.

“So, you kiss Miss Thompson on the terrace—not a bad kiss—and within the hour you are proposing to me in the library. Are you that great a libertine, or is there something I have missed?”

Why did she sound so angry? He had always
thought women were supposed to be overcome with joy at the prospect of matrimony. Instead, she looked distinctly sour.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then how was it?” She leaned toward him, and again he was tempted to move closer.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. While he had never considered himself a wordsmith, never before had he found himself so unable to form coherent sentences. “I found I couldn’t ask her. That is all.”

“Not ask your ideal wife to marry you, why ever not?”

“I realized that she was not my ideal—you were.” There, that sounded articulate—and flattering.

She laughed. She actually laughed, and not the full, low laugh that did such wonderfully strange things to him. This laugh was tight and strained. “You expect me to believe I am your ideal? I begin to fear that you are having some type of fun with me, that it is a farce after all.”

“I assure you I am not.”

She lifted a hand to her hair. “I am not blond.”

“I find perhaps my tastes have changed.”

“I am of far from slender build.”

“Have I ever seemed to mind that?”

She was still for a moment and then slipped off the desk. Stepping toward him, her fingers curled into white fists at her sides, her eyes almost flat. “I have never borne a living child. I do not know that I will ever deliver a healthy baby.”

That brought him to his feet. “Never borne a
living—” Comprehension filled him. “Oh, Clara, I did not know. I am so sorry.”

She turned her face from him toward the darkened window. “And now that you do know?”

“My heart goes out to you. Although Violet has never spoken to me of it, I know that she has faced some of the same pain. She once had a child who lived for only hours, and even months later, I could see the pain of it in her face.”

He reached out to soothe her, but she stepped away.

“That is not what I meant.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Why would you want a wife who might not give you an heir?”

“There is no guarantee with any woman that children are possible.”

He could see her body tighten as he spoke the words and knew he had made a mistake. “I do apologize. I only meant to say that you do not even know that there is a problem.”

“That is an easy thing for you to say. But why would you even wish to take such a risk?”

There had to be a right thing to say—only there didn’t seem to be. “All I can say is that it is a risk I am willing to take. My estates are not entailed. If we have no children, I am sure there is some worthy relative.”

She turned from him, and he could see how tightly drawn her shoulders were, the blades almost meeting at her spine. She did not walk away, but stayed still, her face and body averted from him. “I do not see that it is so easy. It appears unlikely that
Violet will have a child, and who knows of Isabella. I have never heard mention of other relatives.”

“It matters not.” He tensed at the mention of Isabella. Was it the time to speak of her and all the possibilities of her departure? No, that would wait. He would win no favor with Clara by discussing the mistakes of his past.

She lifted a small piece of statuary from a side table and stared with apparent interest at the tiny shepherd. He did not believe that she could have told him a thing about it if he asked. Her whole focus was inward.

He waited for her to say something. The single lamp flickered, making shadows dance dimly about the room. He wanted so desperately to take that step closer to her, to feel the warmth of her body and to know that there was hope.

She placed the shepherd back on the table and lifted her head. He could see resolve in her posture.

“I have mentioned appearance, social perception, and the possibility of an heir as reasons we should not even consider marriage,” she said. “These are all reasons that I don’t understand why you would wish to marry me. I have not even broached the reasons that I would not wish to marry you.”

It was his turn to feel discomfort. “Reasons not to marry me?”

“You are a bully.” She said it as fact, without question.

“I beg your pardon.”

“We have already discussed many times the ways
you pushed your sisters toward marriage. While I have come to understand your reasoning, I still do not agree with it. You see your own opinion as the only valid one. I do not see why I should wish to place myself in your power.”

“I would disagree. I did the only possible thing in regard to my sisters—and regretting it now will make no difference. Yes, I trust my own opinion on most matters. And after watching my parents’ failings, I knew that it was important to make strong decisions. If my father had done what he believed to be right, I would not have been forced to deal with their problems. I am no different than most others. Who does not think that he is right most often? But I do believe that I listen to reasonable argument.”

“Violet did not find it so.” She sounded so deadened of emotion as she spoke.

That was a question he was ready to handle. “Did Violet ever speak of arguing with me? It is so easy for her, and you, to claim that I do what I want without consult of others, but when has this been the case? Violet never spoke strongly against her marriages. If she had, there is the possibility that things might have been different. You have in the past expressed dissatisfaction that I never gave Violet a choice. Perhaps the truth is simply that she never asked for one—or at least not until long after it had ceased to matter.”

“And Isabella? Do you deny that you knew she did not wish the marriage you planned? She fled rather than marry.”

And so perhaps it was necessary to discuss Isabella. He had dreaded this moment. “Do you want me to say I am sorry about Isabella? I am. More so than you could possibly understand. If I had known how strongly she felt I would have tried to find another way.” He was silent for a moment. He stared straight into her eyes and wished she could understand just how sorry. “I wish I had understood more at the time, but Isabella never spoke to me against the match—in fact, she agreed to it. If I had understood, things could have ended differently.”

Her lips drew taut. “That may be true—although it seems unlikely to me. But I know Violet spoke to you against it.”

“Yes, she did. I cannot deny that—but why should I have accepted her words when Isabella said nothing? And there were other considerations.”

“Foxworthy’s blackmail.”

How much had Violet told her? How much did he need to tell her if he planned to make her his wife? “Yes, Foxworthy had proof that my father had been involved in treasonous activities.”

Her eyes widened. So Violet had not shared that detail with her. There was a flash of compassion in her eyes, but then she drew herself back. “I did not know. I still do not see why that should excuse your behavior.”

“And what would you have had me do?” Did she know how many nights he had debated this question?

“We have discussed this before. I do not disagree
with your main point, only your methods. Should not your sisters have had a choice?”

“If they had asked for one I would have considered it and in fact I did when—”

She cut him off. “You would have considered it. That sentence says it all. You believe it is your right to have the final say.” She had fire in her eyes now as she stepped toward him.

“It is not me who believes in that right. It is society. The fact is I did have that right with my sisters.” He took an answering step toward her.

Why did he not just tell her that in the end he had tried to stop Foxworthy, explain how far he had been willing to go to protect Isabella? He took a deep breath. He would do it. He would tell her everything—and then let her judge his actions—and their consequences.

She did not give him a chance.

“And why should I give you this power over me?”

That stopped him, but only for a moment—he would tell her the rest later after they had dealt with this issue. He placed a finger beneath her chin, drawing her gaze up to meet his. “It is a matter of trust in the end. When have I ever given you reason to doubt me? When have I not listened to you? You are not an easy woman, and still I take your words into consideration.”

“Such praise.” She tried to twist her chin from his hand. “I am not an easy woman and you grant me the privilege of listening when I talk. This is how you expect to win my hand?”

He held firm, keeping their eyes level. “I give you only the truth. Is not that what you want?”

Anger was filling her, he could feel her breath speed with emotion. She placed a hand on his chest to push him away.

“Yes, I want the truth. I just am not sure that you give it to me. I do not believe that you would leave me free to do as I wished if we married.”

“I never said that I would.” There, that was honest. “If I thought your actions were harmful I would try to stop them. I have seen what can happen when a woman is left unchecked.” He dropped his hand from her face to catch her hand and hold it firm over his heart.

“Damn you.” She spoke through gritted teeth and tried hard to pull away from him. “You have given me no reason to trust you.”

“But have I given you reason not to?” He wrapped his other hand about her waist and pulled her tight to him.

She could only gasp as he pulled her toward him. Whether it was in response to the gesture or the question she didn’t know.

“My mother was given free rein by my father and she ruined us all.” He spoke so softly she almost did not hear his words. His heart was beating under her fingers, and she was intensely aware of each pulse. As the pace increased, she didn’t know whether it was anger or her closeness that caused his reaction.

He continued, “My father gave her everything
she wanted, followed her wherever she went. She gambled, flirted, took other lovers, and still he followed her, did not stop her. She gambled until we had nothing left, and my father took the blame. If he had ever stopped her, my whole life would have been different.”

“I am not your mother.” Her heart felt pain for him, but she must think for herself, for the baby.

“I know, but still I must be on guard to be sure you never become her. I could never let a woman do to me what my mother did to my father—to all of us.”

He was so damn stubborn. Why could he not see the problem with his logic, understand that she did not need to be so watched? Why could he not grant that she had a right to act as she chose?