Chapter Fifteen
The dinner party hosted by Lord and Lady Roth was going to be Clara’s first official presentation as Pearce’s wife.
Though she hid it well beneath her practiced social facade, Pearce knew the truth of her nerves.
She’d been fidgety the entire day and had spent no less than an hour selecting her attire, and another two hours preparing herself.
The carriage ride to the street on which the Roths resided was unusually quiet, too.
He found it remarkable how, when they rolled to a stop outside the townhouse, Clara straightened her spine, curled her delectable lips into a charming half smile, and transformed herself into the Society diamond he knew her to be.
Despite her prowess at playing the role, he still did his best to make her confident and comfortable, reminding her to smile with side comments and acerbic wit.
“Everyone is staring at us,” she observed beneath her breath.
Pearce pressed a possessive hand to the small of her back. “They are admiring you,” he began, his lips scandalously close to her ear, “and wondering how in the world I managed to con you into marrying me.”
She eyed at him skeptically. “Hardly. The women seem quite sorry that you are taken.”
“Just wait until we return to London. The salacious gossip will begin in earnest then, if it hasn’t already.”
“They will all be saying what a fool I am for ever allowing you to corrupt me,” she said impishly.
“I’d forgotten the angelic persona you’ve so carefully portrayed for your adoring masses.
” He stroked her arm with his knuckles, unable to resist touching the petal-soft flesh between the glove and the edge of her ice-blue sleeve.
“You forget I know the real hellcat you are,” he said seductively.
“If you desire real corruption, I can show you tonight. Just be certain that the kitten brings her claws.”
*
The timbre of her husband’s voice sent a chill of awareness through Clara’s body.
The boldness of the banter in public was unexpectedly exciting and made her knees weak.
Sneaking a glance up at Pearce, she wondered how, years ago, she’d never noticed how sinfully attractive he was, how much more masculine he was than the puppies who had trailed her skirts in the past. How had she not appreciated him and seen him for the complex, dear man that he was?
Just then, Pearce was pulled into a conversation with another guest. Clara was quickly approached by their hostess—enjoying her freedom in being a married woman out in Society.
Gone were the days of chaperones and careful adherence to the strict rules of unwed girls.
While there were still guidelines she was required to follow, they were far less rigid without her virtue to guard.
“I am so pleased you and your husband were able to attend before returning to London,” said Lady Roth, genuinely kind and welcoming.
She was a woman who did not bother to mask the cinnamon-colored freckles dusting her nose, and Clara had liked her instantly upon introduction.
“I have to say, when we departed Town, the news of your marriage had recently arrived, and you left a number of pining hearts in your wake. How cruel of you to return as a happily married woman and utterly shatter those poor boys’ dreams.” The words were said in false chastisement, amusement dancing in the other woman’s eyes.
Clara did not quite know how to respond—had Lady Roth not heard of the rushed and forced circumstances of her recent union?
It could hardly be qualified as a grand romance that had swept her away from the Marriage Mart.
Of course, Clara liked to think that she and Pearce were finding their footing and discovering happiness, but she did not believe they had been a couple out in Society long enough to be qualified as happily wed.
As if reading her mind, their hostess took Clara’s arm and patted her hand.
“Do not fret, dear. I am not so out of touch with everything that I’ve misinterpreted your recent nuptials, and I would wager a great many of the guests in attendance here are the same.
Your new husband is not an insignificant man with a small reputation, after all, and news travels with remarkable speed when it involves powerful individuals.
When my husband encountered the two of you the other day, I must admit that he was not suspecting such amiability between the two of you—he expressed as much to me when he returned home to add your names to our list of guests.
I believe the disappointment on some of my guests’ faces is due to this realization as well.
” She lifted her chin in the direction of a few men who dared approach them now that Pearce had left her unattended.
“And here come some of them now. Brace yourself for pretty words of broken hearts and unrequited longing.” Lady Roth’s light, irreverent tone nearly made Clara giggle aloud, but she hid it well.
Soon, she was surrounded by men inquiring after her well-being, offering to retrieve refreshments, and vying for her attention.
The situation was so similar to how her life had so recently been that Clara expected to experience a pang of longing or nostalgia.
Instead, she felt nothing. When comparing her past to her present, there was nothing that could entice her to go back—especially when she heard her husband’s deep laughter and spotted his blond head over the throng of guests.
*
“Your new wife seems to have stepped into her role quite well so far,” commented Lord Hugh.
“She has, hasn’t she?” Pearce replied appreciatively. “And this is only the beginning. We are looking forward to making our return to London.”
“Marriage may be a trap, but there are far worse wardens to be beholden to,” Lord Ainsley added with a chuckle and a hiccough. The Roth spirits were already making the rounds amongst the guests.
“If anyone was trapped, it was my wife,” Pearce mentioned, thinking how she’d quite literally been snagged in the bushes before being marched through the blacksmith’s.
“It won’t be difficult to get an heir on that one, eh?” commented another man, laughing with a ribald wink and elbowing Pearce in the side.
Pearce’s blood ran cold, but he forced a good-natured smile.
He could not, however, bring himself to respond.
He owed these men nothing. They may have been on friendly terms, but that did not mean it entitled them to discussing his wife or his marriage.
Praising Clara was one thing—he would gladly assist them in singing her praises—but it was another to reduce her existence to something so crass.
She was so much more than that; even though he did not desire children, to him, their marriage was so much more than a union with the purpose of continuing his family’s lineage.
Thankfully, Pearce was saved from having to steer the conversation by a different direction by another guest who gestured with the drink in his hand and said, “I don’t think that’ll be the issue, gentlemen. The real task will be keeping the young bucks away from his prize.”
All the men, including Pearce, followed the gesture to find Clara holding court.
Apparently, her marital status hadn’t done all that much to deter her admirers.
Pearce might have felt a touch disrespected if he hadn’t known, himself, how little marriage vows often meant to the ton—especially in a marriage with circumstances such as theirs had been.
The promises of fidelity often meant less to them than the paper upon which the license was penned.
Swooping into a marriage that was more transactional than emotional was easily accomplished.
Pearce could admit that, on more than one occasion, he’d been just such an opportunist. He could not fault them.
However, as he watched Clara’s fingers grazed the sleeve of one of the men when he said something to make her laugh, he knew he did not have to tolerate it.
“If you’ll excuse me…” Pearce slipped away from his companions without waiting for a reply, determined to remind the lads sniffing around his wife’s skirts just how formidable a buck they would be challenging.
He took perverse pleasure in the looks on their faces when he came up behind his wife and wrapped his hands around her bare upper arms in an unequivocally possessive gesture.
“Won’t you introduce me to your companions, darling?” he drawled.
All but one of the men averted his eyes somewhat guiltily. His skin tingled with the pleasure of making his possession of Clara obvious. Many of them walked away with awkwardly muttered excuses in the face of Pearce’s glare.
Tilting her head to look up at him, Clara said, “That was a bit unkind, don’t you think?”
He brushed off her comment. “Are you telling me you enjoyed their attentions?”
She shrugged. “Can you honestly tell me you would mind it if the women in this room flocked to you and extolled your virtues?”
He did not much care to be put in his place by reason—especially when he’d actually experienced just such a thing in the past…and had, indeed, enjoyed it quite a bit.
Clara nodded knowingly. “Besides, they are completely harmless.”
“I would not say that,” he grumbled. “They do not respect us as husband and wife.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because, were I one of them, I would not respect a marriage which had begun as ours did.”
Clara, momentarily taken aback by his bluntness, stopped walking and pulled him to a halt beside her. “But you do, do you not? Respect this marriage, despite how it came about?”
Quickly, he cast his eyes about and pulled her into an alcove. “I do,” he replied adamantly, staring deeply into her eyes, wishing he could sink forever into the rich pools of her irises. “You do as well, do you not?”
Clara smiled, sensing his insecurity despite his adept skills at masking his deeper emotions—she was becoming quite the expert on him, it seemed. “I do believe you are jealous.”
“Absolutely not,” he scoffed.
“You are!” Clara chirped almost giddily as she poked his chest. Damn, but why was she so enticing when she enjoyed the way he bristled at her teasing?
“That is absurd,” Pearce insisted, puffing out his chest just the slightest bit.
She sobered before she took it too far and squeezed his arm to draw his attention to her sincerity.
“You need not worry about any of those other men. They’ve never pleased me that way you do—they do not interest me in the slightest. You are more complex than all of them put together…
and we both know that not a single one of them could handle me. ”
Pearce actually laughed aloud, drawing the attention of some nearby guests.
He cared not—not when Clara smiled up at him like she was doing in that moment.
It was as if she believed he held the sole key to her happiness.
The pressure was tremendous, but it was also humbling in its purity.
No one had ever trusted him in such a way before.
Of course, Anna had professed her love and he would never doubt that she believed the words, but he was slowly coming to realize there was so much more to that emotion than a nearly choking infatuation, or the overwhelming desire to discard all responsibilities in favor of being in your lover’s presence.
He was recognizing that he’d loved Anna in her own way, but what he was beginning to allow himself to feel for Clara was something richer, more complex.
She shone the light on the shadows of his past and was gradually helping to dispel his demons.
She was becoming the center of his world, and, somewhat surprisingly, the thought excited him.
She was giving him a purpose. She was reminding him what it was like to view the world through a more optimistic lens.
He could have hope. He could have a future.
“And I don’t love any of them like I love you, you frustrating man.”
Pearce’s heart paused for a moment before it raced to catch the beats it had missed.
This was not the first time a woman had told Pearce that she loved him; he had believed that statement fewer times than he had fingers on one hand, and he’d reciprocated only to Anna.
When Clara said it, however, the world seemed to stop.
It was as if the sound of the words was the perfect holy note to unfetter what remained of his shuttered heart.
How different things would have been had Clara not been her troublesome self and intruded upon the tryst in her usual, messy fashion.
It was no little thing for Pearce to realize he minded it a great deal less than he thought he would; even more so that he was grateful for it.
He checked himself before he could commit to the impulse of hauling her against him and kissing her senseless.
Instead, he bent his head and whispered elicit promises into her ear and sent her searing looks throughout supper that made her squirm, as if every word, every glance was a physical caress that set her skin on fire with desire.