Another ball, and another evening of wasted emotion. But at least the host had the decency to keep the bedrooms unlocked. Misspent lust was a welcome addition to the grim pleasures Gabriel sought.
He slammed into the woman beneath him, driving with a passion that was not for her. Pulsing wet flesh massaged his cock, and the legs hooked to his back were tight and strong. Constance Yates, groaning and squealing, bucked eagerly to meet his thrusts. Gabriel kept his eyes resolutely shut. Whenever he opened them he saw a face frantic with excitement, and eyes that were light brown. He wanted other eyes, eyes that were soulful,
eyes that were bluer and more precious than lapis lazuli. But Clarissa could not be his.
Constance reached her orgasm with a long screech. Her vagina contracted hungrily but it was not enough to milk the pleasure from him. Gabriel powered into her rich slippery depths, ramming himself high. Angry resentment fuelled his search for release, spurring him on to rough urgency. The woman whimpered. Whether it was in pleasure or protest, Gabriel did not know. Nor did he care. The woman had come to him full of greedy lust and he was determined to claim satisfaction, just as she had claimed hers.
‘Grip me harder,’ he hissed, and Constance clamped her sex muscles to him. The tightness drew him closer to his peak. He thrust with bitter determination, his arse lunging furiously, until his hot seed raced along his shaft. He cursed hoarsely, taking relief rather than pleasure from the moment.
Within seconds, he pulled out of her and flung himself on to his back. He was grateful that Constance never bothered with sweet talk or made any attempt to pet. She was, at least, honest in her desires. She wanted Gabriel for his prick, nothing more, and that was fine by him.
‘You exhaust me,’ she said. ‘I’m thirsty. I need a drink.’
‘Then go and get one,’ muttered Gabriel.
‘You go for me,’ she wheedled. ‘It’ll take me an eternity to get dressed. Go on, Gabriel. Be a treasure. Pop down for a glass of champagne.’
Gabriel grunted dismissively. Clarissa was somewhere downstairs, and tonight he didn’t know if he could trust himself. His plan to make her hate him was proving difficult to follow. The logic of it worked against itself. Whenever he knew Clarissa would be attending a function, Gabriel made sure he was also there, just so he could spurn her. But the more he saw her, the more he
wanted her, and the harder it was to be cold. Yet he had to do it, for both their sakes.
Gabriel had no desire to make an enemy of Lord Marldon, but it was not fear which kept him from Clarissa. He suspected he could love her, and her him. The pain of parting, weeks or maybe months from now, would be unbearable. It was easier to stop things before they started. And, with Clarissa’s feelings uppermost in his mind, Gabriel thought the kindest way to do that was not with open explanations but with cruelty.
‘Champagne,’ he repeated, jerking on his shirt. ‘I shall return with two glasses. But only if you promise me a dance later.’
Constance gave a short bray of laughter. ‘A dance?’ she exclaimed, affectedly fluffing at her ash-blonde curls. ‘Gracious me, I didn’t realise you cared.’
‘Oh, I do,’ said Gabriel, thinking of Clarissa. ‘I do.’
Clarissa thought she had hardened her heart to Gabriel. Every time she’d seen him flaunting his latest conquest, every time he’d cut her dead with his eyes, her protective shell had grown stronger. She dwelt on his rejection of her and did not avert her eyes when he paraded and flirted with the other woman. It was a painful process, like cauterising a wound. Better that, she thought, than have a weeping sore.
But now she craved for a word, a look, a touch. Earlier, she’d caught him observing her and his eyes had held such tender yearning that she could no longer believe he didn’t care. In that brief moment all her defences had crumbled.
She hovered by the doorway of the music salon, within view of the broad staircase. Men, elegant and gloved, milled about, sipping wine and chatting. But none of them was Gabriel. He had disappeared up the stairs some time since, the blonde on his arm – a blonde, thought Clarissa, which had not been achieved without a frisette or two and a good deal of gold powder.
It had hurt her deeply to see them ascend, laughing and touching just a little too much. No doubt they were seeking out one of the many bedrooms rumoured to be on offer. Clarissa wished she could be as brazen and daring. Perhaps then Gabriel would look upon her more favourably. Or, better still, she would not ache so profoundly for him. She would be a woman who pursued pleasures with casual lightness and did not suffer from the heart’s demands.
She spotted him and her stomach leapt excitedly. He was at the head of the crowded stairs, tall and slender, hair curling at his shoulders – so different from all the others.
Clarissa stepped back and, screened by people, she watched him make his way down, relieved to see he was now alone. His eyes swooped over faces, acknowledging some with a nod and a tight-lipped smile. As he neared the bottom, Clarissa nudged a path towards him. She was calm and bold, knowing only that she had to speak with him. Gabriel’s roaming eyes met with hers, and immediately he looked away.
Clarissa surged forward, ignoring the muttered complaints, and grabbed at his wrist.
‘Why do you treat me so?’ she pleaded in a hushed voice.
Gabriel swung round, vexation twisting his face. He stared at her with haughty disapproval before tugging away his arm and moving on. Clarissa followed him along the corridor and, when the crowds began to thin out, she clutched his wrist again.
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Just tell me why.’
Gabriel shook off her hand. There was a dishevelled air about him, more so than usual. His clothes were not as crisp as they had been earlier, and his chestnut curls were a little tangled. Clarissa felt a hot stab of jealousy, and hoped she might delay his return to the blonde.
‘I find it better not to court women when they’re about to be wed,’ he replied stiffly. ‘The intrigue invariably
proves quite tiresome. With you, it would be more tiresome than most.’
‘Please, Gabriel,’ she began, unsure of what to say. Surely she did not deserve such opprobrium for withholding the fact of her marriage. Yet, what could she ask of him? He was perfectly correct. Within three months she would be wed.
‘Can’t we at least be civil?’ she asked weakly.
‘Civil?’ he scoffed. ‘You want civility? Oh, charming little party, isn’t it, Miss Longleigh? Are you enjoying your London debut? I do hope so. When are the banns being read? I would dearly like to attend. Have you found yourself a gallant for the evening? You’ll want to keep up with the kissing practice if you’re to satisfy your –’
‘Stop it! Stop it!’ she shouted, emotion stinging her eyes.
‘And perhaps there’s more you should practise,’ he continued over her protests, his tone increasingly caustic. ‘Have you found anyone willing to probe beneath your petticoats, Miss Longleigh? You ought to loosen up before you tie the knot. You hardly seem a ready piece to be sharing a bed with that … that heartless old roué.’
‘No,’ she whispered, shaking her head. ‘No. Lord Marldon is a worthy man. My father has chosen him.’ A tear rolled down her cheek and she gulped a stifled sob.
The angry lines disappeared from Gabriel’s brow and the scornful twist to his mouth vanished. He looked at her softly and she thought she discerned a glint of moisture in his caramel eyes.
‘You’re too trusting, little one,’ he said in a low, sympathetic voice. ‘Far too trusting.’ He stroked away her tear with a gentle caress, watching her with compassion and desire. His gaze flickered longingly over her face and he bent towards her, his lips parted in readiness for a kiss.
Clarissa’s mouth lifted; her heart drummed wildly. This was what she wanted. She didn’t care who saw.
But Gabriel drew back. He smiled, a nasty narrow smile. His eyes burned.
‘Grow up, Clarissa,’ he spat, with a lashing venom. ‘You’ll need to.’
Chapter Five
IT WAS HYDE
Park, an hour or so after noon. The season was well under way, the weather was glorious, and it appeared all of London was out to see and be seen.
On the far banks of the Serpentine, the Bayswater crowds lazed under trees or took skiffs out on to the weedy waters. London’s fashionable, however, stayed clear of that area. Their gleaming horses and lacquered carriages jangled around the gravel drives. On lawns and walkways, ladies in pastel silks strolled, twirling their parasols and smiling serenely as flurries of top hats greeted them.
Clarissa, in a black habit cut like a glove, cantered along the dusty tanbark of Rotten Row. Her face was flushed and radiant, but her heart was lead.
Lucy had counselled her to ignore Gabriel’s taunts. Lord Marldon was not the man he’d said, of course he wasn’t. Pah, Gabriel was a twenty-six-year-old bachelor and probably jealous. And he was an artist, a typical artist – fickle, moody, selfish and impossibly passionate. In short, he was perfectly hopeless. She must forget him and find herself another beau.
But Clarissa could not forget him and she did not want another beau. At the very least, she wanted an
explanation. At the most, she wanted – what? Would half a summer of secret meetings and stolen caresses be enough? She doubted it, but it was the best she might hope for.
As she rode along the burnt-orange strip, the young swells lounging elegantly over the railings followed her with approving eyes. Clarissa did not care for them; she hated their attentions.
‘Whoa there, Brandy,’ she said, reining in her hack as she approached Hyde Park Corner. There faultlessly tailored horsewomen gathered. They chatted in little groups or wheeled around their horses for another turn.
She stroked the chestnut mare’s sleek neck and spotted Lucy, her golden ringlets spilling out beneath the veil of her dainty tricorn. Trotting over, Clarissa smiled politely at the faces that had become familiar in recent weeks.
‘There’s a gentleman in a red carriage,’ she said, drawing up her horse near to Lucy’s. ‘At the far end. His footman has requested that we speak with him. Please come. He mentioned your name.’
‘Did you notice the crest?’ asked Lucy suspiciously.
‘I’m afraid not. I wasn’t close enough.’
Lucy touched her crop to the gelding’s flank and Clarissa followed suit. Hooves softly thudding, they cantered a mile or so until they reached a part of the row where the bordering trees thinned out. In the shade of an oak stood a pair of dappled greys harnessed to a deep-claret barouche. Its small hood, unusually drawn for such fine weather, cast darkness over the occupant. On the box a coachman in a gold-banded top hat, his whip angled high, stared blankly at their approach.
Lucy reined in alongside the carriage. From the gloom of the seat, a man leant forward and propped an arm on the carriage door. A diamond flashed on his hand. It was Lucy’s secret lover, the man in the library.
Clarissa’s head span with guilty recollection and her pulse surged to a rapid beat. The man surveyed Lucy
with a cool interest and smiled knowingly. Remembered arousal coursed through Clarissa’s body – arousal which, though it warmed her loins, chilled her blood and froze her heart.
Lucy lowered an extended hand. ‘Lord Marldon,’ she said in a hostile voice.
Clarissa felt the colour drain from her face, leaving her cheeks cold and ashen. Her stomach clenched on itself and swirled with a heavy sickness. Her senses reeled. This could not be her husband. It was impossible.
‘Won’t you introduce us?’ said the man, disdainfully pointing his chin towards Clarissa. ‘She has the makings of an excellent horsewoman. Sits too low though.’
His eyes were beads of jet, watching her from hooded lids. His gaze was coolly assessing, predatory. Clarissa felt that stare as fingers of ether, slithering between her silks and her skin. Though her mind urged her to look away, she could not.
Lucy pulled her horse back a couple of steps, obliging Clarissa to move closer. She recalled now Alicia’s single word: dark. And yes, in appearance he was. But the darkness went beyond that. It was in his eyes as a malevolent glint and on his lips as a cold, cruel smile. And it was doubtless the architect of the drawn cynicism which etched his face.
Gabriel had spoken the truth.
She held out her hand, hoping her black kid gloves would conceal the tremors within.
‘Alexander van Ghent, the Earl of Marldon,’ said Lucy stiffly. ‘Allow me to present Miss Annabel Stanton.’
Clarissa felt faint with relief. For the moment she was safe, her identity unknown. She was not the woman he would take as his bride. Sooner or later he would discover who she was. But for now that did not matter.
Lord Marldon smiled thinly and took her tentatively proffered hand. He looked up at her while his lips lingered on her fingertips. Clarissa cast her eyes to the
ground and heard her own soft voice saying, ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, my lord.’
Then suddenly, somehow, the buttons on the underside of her glove were undone. A sharp breath caught in her throat and she felt the cool lightness of his touch. The shock of the intrusion paralysed her, and her hand would not move from his. It stayed there, allowing him to stroke ticklish rotations on the thin, veined skin of her wrist.
She swallowed hard. As he rubbed gently, a growing sense of doom crept upon her, a stealthy realisation that this man would be, not her husband, but her master and tormentor. While the thought filled her with dread, an unfathomable desire, deep and fierce, twisted like a knife within her.
She moved to snatch away her hand but the earl was quick. His grip tightened, his mouth slid down, and his teeth closed around the very tip of her gloved middle finger. He nipped once then released her.
Clarissa clutched her hand protectively to her body, gazing at him in stunned disbelief.
Lord Marldon leant back and laughed.
‘Delighted to meet you, Miss …?’ Beneath his raised, questioning brows, his dark eyes mocked her.
‘Stanton,’ interjected Lucy. ‘Miss Annabel Stanton. Now, if you’ll excuse us, my lord, we have a pressing engagement.’ She touched her whip to her horse and wheeled it away from the carriage.