Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
I t had been two days since Roderick encountered Clarissa outside the library and she warned him away. And she had been true to her word and avoided him strenuously ever since. Or at least as well as she could. They’d been seated next to each other at supper once in that time, though she had only briefly spoken to him and hadn’t met his eyes.
She’d been much more verbose and friendly with another of the partygoers. The very man she was standing with now, across the garden, chatting away with a serene smile on her face like he was the most interesting person in the world: the Marquess of Mickenshire.
Roderick pursed his lips. He had no idea why Clarissa was putting so much of her attention on the man. Mickenshire was boring as plain toast, certainly not matched to her wit and the fire she tried so hard to hide from everyone around her.
George stepped up beside him and offered him punch. He took it but didn’t drink. “Did something happen regarding your cousin?”
George blinked and looked toward her in the crowd. “Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve simply noticed her putting a great deal of attention into the marquess.” Roderick motioned toward them. “And I sometimes sense a little desperation in the way she interacts with him. She laughs too hard at what cannot be interesting stories. She ignores it when he treads on her feet while they dance.”
George’s lips pursed and he observed the marquess and Clarissa a moment. “Hmm. She does seem to be paying particular attention to the man, you are right. I don’t know why—she doesn’t talk to me about such things, of course. But I do know my aunt and uncle are singular. They’ve been pressing harder and harder on her to marry and marry well in the last year. Perhaps she has decided to acquiesce at last and has chosen the marquess as her way out of their noose.”
Roderick flinched at the idea. For Clarissa to marry Mickenshire? She couldn’t possibly be happy with such a life.
“I suppose if she did choose him,” George continued, “at least the union would likely be brief. If she can produce him his heir, she’ll be well taken care of in the end.”
That was true. At his age, Mickenshire would likely have ten years left if he was lucky. But he couldn’t see Clarissa being so mercenary. Her attention to propriety wouldn’t allow for it, if nothing else.
“I do not understand these parents who will sacrifice their children, especially their daughters, in such a way,” he said with a scowl. “Brief or not, can they possibly be happy with the idea of her marrying a man older than her father who will only see her as a broodmare?”
Now it was George who flinched. “I agree, it’s not palatable. But I’ve no say in the matter. The higher title and the money that comes with it is tied up with my parents until I inherit and you know my father is hale and hearty. I cannot do anything to support Clarissa away from the desires of her parents. Even if I could, she is so driven to be meek to their demands thanks to those awful comportment books…she might bend to their will even if she saw another exit to the situation.” George shook his head. “This is entirely depressing. I think I’ll get another drink.”
George strode off and Roderick pursed his lips harder as he continued to stare at Clarissa. That serene smile that tilted her lips didn’t reach her eyes. She almost looked…haunted, and his stomach turned on her behalf. She stepped away, out of his view and he realized her father was standing behind her. And Mr. Lockhart was watching… him evenly and with purpose. Roderick shifted and dropped his gaze away.
Did Mr. Lockhart resent his attention to Clarissa? Fear that he might intrude upon the match he and his wife so desired? And why did Roderick wish to intrude? He wasn’t going to marry Clarissa, himself. He barely knew her, she didn’t like him. And yet he wished very much to discuss this matter with her. To try to convince her that her future didn’t have to be so pallid . Mickenshire was pallid, as plain as Clarissa’s gowns.
He found her in the crowd again. She was crossing away from the group, across the lawn and around toward the back of the house. He drew a brief breath and followed, setting his drink down on the edge of a table as he exited the party.
When he came around the house, he didn’t see her for a moment, but then he caught a glimpse of her gown as she disappeared into one of the doors that led back into the house. He walked faster to catch up with her and entered the house as she made her way down the hallway. She hadn’t noticed him yet, it seemed, but he noticed everything about her. There was nothing calm in the way she walked, hands clenched at her sides, body stiff as she moved. She was upset, just as she had been when they last spoke in the library.
It seemed the library would be the same place they would speak today for she staggered into the room out of his sight. He drew a few long breaths as he slowed his pace. He had a choice here. He could do as she’d requested days ago and leave her alone. He could go back to the party, pretend he hadn’t seen her unraveling. Or he could follow. Insert himself where he didn’t belong. He could try to help her, though he’d never considered himself any great hero to ladies.
He couldn’t stop himself, it seemed. He entered the library behind her.
C larissa couldn’t draw a full breath as she entered the library. Once this had been her sanctuary, but she had found no pleasure in it for days. She found no pleasure in anything, truth be told.
She had been raised to marry for position, but now that she was making headway with the marquess…and she was making headway with him, she could feel his interest increasing…she felt sick. There was no attraction whatsoever there for her. When she looked at him, she was put to mind of her dear grandfather, not of a husband. And he was boring, so boring. He repeated himself and talked over her and had no interest in anything modern or fun. All he did have interest in was producing an heir. He wasn’t crude about it, of course he wouldn’t be. But he did keep making not-so-subtle inquiries about her health. She kept expecting him to check her teeth like she was some pony he was considering buying.
She leaned against the bookshelf with one arm, rested her head in the crook and began to cry. She hadn’t expected that to happen, but she did. And then she couldn’t stop. Great heaving sobs wracked her entire body, a dam burst that she had likely been holding back for years. There was no moderation to be had in that moment, there was only pain and regret, fear and sadness.
She felt a hand on her arm, someone gently turning her and then strong arms encased her, tucking her against a firm, warm chest that smelled like sandalwood and mint and everything delicious. She glanced up to find it was Kirkwood. But of course it was Kirkwood. She’d known that, hadn’t she? Even without seeing his face.
She should have pulled away, but instead she buried her head into his shoulder and allowed the tears to continue to flow. He stroked her hair gently, not saying a word to urge her to stop this foolish display. He merely witnessed it, allowing her to express it without judgment.
She had no idea how long they stood like that, but her sobs began to subside after some time. She realized she was clenching her fingers against his back and stopped .
He drew in a deep breath and she found herself doing the same, feeling some of the shattering emotion dissipate a little when she did.
“Tell me,” he whispered at last.
She shook her head. She shouldn’t tell him. Not him of all people. But the words were coming now, as uncontrollable as the tears and the feelings she always held back with all her might.
“I’ll never have anything, will I?” she gasped out. “I realize what an empty, loveless life it will be. A passionless, so-very-proper, empty life.”
Was that it? Was that what hurt so much? She’d always told herself, told Marianne, told anyone who asked, that she didn’t require those connections in her husband. That she knew her duty and that arranged marriages were often transactional and cool.
And yet there was some wicked, improper part of herself that wanted more.
Kirkwood made a rumble from deep in his chest and then he cupped her chin, turning her face up toward him. “There is so much more in life than this, Clarissa,” he said, his fingers splaying against her cheek gently. “You deserve so much more than this, don’t you understand that? So much more than a man like the marquess could ever provide.”
She blinked. His face was very close now. As close as it had been during the parlor games days before. When they’d kissed. Barely kissed. And like then, she realized she wished she could kiss him again. Not sweetly or briefly, but truly be kissed.
“Clarissa,” he said, and his voice was rougher. He was lowering his head toward her, she was lifting her chin toward him, like they were called to each other by some unseen force. Their lips met.
At first it was very similar to the kiss in the game. Soft, gentle, just a brushing of lips. But then he made a possessive sound from his chest and his fingers moved up from her cheek and into her hair, tilting her face as his mouth pressed a little harder. She gasped at the sensation and her lips parted against his. His tongue darted out, tracing the opening she’d created, setting off fireworks of sensation through her entire being that were unlike anything she’d ever known.
She clung to him harder, leaning into his solidness, his strength, letting him guide her away from safety and into something like a warm bath that she could sink away into and never come out.
He tasted her, still gentle but now so intimate, and she found herself meeting him with her tongue, matching his strokes, lifting against him as the kiss deepened because she wanted more. More and more until there was nothing but this.
He pulled her closer, her body molding to his, his breath short and hot between kisses, his hands gripping at her like he was fighting for control. Was she stealing his control? His? That couldn’t be right. And the triumph that wicked idea left in her couldn’t be right either.
Somehow it didn’t feel wrong, though. There was only sensation, not judgment. Beautiful, tingling, heated sensation that crept its way through her entire body and made her feel weightless.
She lifted against him again, seeking more of this, but before she could receive it, before she could come to her own senses and back away, before he could sweep her into whatever came next, there was a gasp at the library door.
They tore apart from each other and both stared toward the noise, only to find Clarissa’s mother and father, along with their vicar, Mr. Reade, who had been in attendance at the garden party. All three were staring. Mr. Reade looked horrified and judgmental, but her parents, oh, that was a different story. Her mother was smiling, simply unable to cover her absolute delight in this humiliation and what it would cause. Her father at least had the decency to frown, even though his eyes danced.
Clarissa began to shake as she staggered backward, into the bookshelf, sending a few volumes clattering down onto the floor. She glanced at Kirkwood, who looked as shocked as she felt, and then her knees went out from under her and she slid toward the floor.