Chapter Eleven
Claire’s infectious laugh echoed off the glass walls of the conservatory. A burst of happiness filled Jasper at the sound, but the joy soon faded and his brain started to function again.
What the hell had he just done? Made love to his wife, for the first time, at a ball given in their honor, in a location where they could be discovered at any moment! Holy Christ!
Jasper’s head was swimming. How had he allowed himself to be seduced so thoroughly? How had he allowed his self-control to be so utterly and completely lost? Where was the famous control he was so proud of developing, the all-important sense of propriety and decorum he longed to achieve?
Gone. It disappeared in an instant, like a puff of smoke. Dread flooded through him, together with the realization that he was not really a changed man. His wild, impetuous, destructive nature was not gone or tamed. There had merely been nothing there to challenge it, until Claire, with her alluring smiles and fiery kisses, entered his life.
When he had brought Claire out to the conservatory, he had never expected anything like this to happen. He had deliberately kept his distance since their wedding, figuring they both needed time to make adjustments to their wedded state before moving on to an intimate relationship.
But what he really had been doing was avoiding temptation, and avoiding risk. He had made an emotional retreat from Claire in order to save them both. He shook his head, trying to make sense of it, but it was impossible to find logic or reason in passion.
His gaze rose and met hers. Claire’s blue eyes were wide and brimming with unasked questions. Cowardly, he turned from her and began to button his shirt. He was not ready to discuss what had just happened. Truthfully, he doubted he would ever be ready to have that conversation.
Jasper stuffed his shirt back into his breeches, then fumbled with the ends of his limp cravat. Knowing it would be impossible, he did not attempt to recreate the intricate configuration his valet had tied earlier in the evening. Instead, he formed the fabric into a simple knot. Though a small detail, Jasper knew there would be some at the ball who would notice the change in his appearance, but he doubted even those jaded minds would hit upon the true reason for the difference.
Once he was finished putting himself in order, Lord Fairhurst wordlessly turned to assist Claire. She jumped slightly when he touched her bare shoulder, but then willingly accepted his help.
As he fastened the long, neat row of small buttons on the back of her bodice, Jasper saw the faint marks his fingers had left on the creamy white skin of her shoulders and back. Tangible evidence of his passion—and loss of control—it also was a stark reminder of her vulnerability.
He stood for a moment staring into space. He imagined she was bruised and sore in other places, too. Unbidden images sprang to mind, and Jasper felt another surge of longing shoot through him.
Hell, the last thing he needed is more erotic pictures swirling in his head. Every nerve in his body was still humming; pleasure still coursed through his veins. Though a part of him was appalled at his lack of control, another equally strong part was more than prepared to mate again with his alluring wife.
Somehow he managed to stop himself from pinning Claire against the glass wall, covering her mouth with his own, and pressing his hard body intimately against her softness. Digging deep, Jasper pulled his sense of propriety to the forefront, hoping that would stifle his emotions, but he could not completely abandon the odd proprietary feeling and sense of possession he now felt toward Claire.
He had wondered how he would feel about her lack of virginity when he finally consummated their marriage. Initially, it had irritated him, knowing she had so deeply loved another man. But in the end, Jasper was surprised to realize it had made very little difference.
Who was first was not nearly as critical as who would be last. On that there would be no compromise or question, and the thought relieved Jasper of any lingering distress. Claire was now his and would always remain his. Until death parted them.
The conundrum lay in the fact that it was far more than sex. Jasper shook his head and laughed silently. All of the early years of reckless and wild copulation had indeed been useful, for they showcased the difference most blatantly.
Making love with Claire involved a darker need that existed inside him. By indulging this need, a link had been forged between them that was stronger than his common sense and his sense of propriety. It left him uneasy, knowing part of him had relished the intimacy, part of him had craved it, and part of him had been humbled by it.
“I have never done anything like that before,” Jasper said suddenly. “Completely abandon myself to my carnal desires in such a public place, with the risk of discovery at any moment.”
“This is a first for me also,” Claire retorted. The edge in his voice seemed to make her wary, yet her eyes were sharp as they met his.
Guilt surged through Jasper. He did not mean to hurt her feelings or to imply that he believed she often engaged in such rash behavior.
“I found it to be rather extraordinary,” he replied in a spurt of honesty.
She seemed startled at his admission. An odd sense of desolation swept over him. After what they had just shared, it seemed almost criminal that they should feel so unsure of each other. Recklessly, Jasper swooped down and kissed her neck. It was an acknowledgment of his sexual satisfaction and an apology for acting so distant. Claire seemed to understand, for the tightness in her shoulders relaxed.
He made a move to leave, but she touched his arm. “Can we stay just a little longer? ’Tis rather pleasant, being alone here in this hushed room.”
He peered over her shoulder and gazed at the clock that stood in the corner. It was late. They really should leave. He opened his mouth to deny her request, then stopped.
Though it was the last thing he wanted, Jasper drew up a chair. Once Claire was seated, he fetched a second chair for himself. “We can only stay a few minutes, though, I’m fairly certain by this time everyone has noticed our absence.”
Claire wrinkled her nose at him. “Does it really matter so much? What they think?”
He shrugged.
She smiled. “I would have thought that a man brave enough to fight a duel with the Marquess of Dardington would have the courage to face down the gossip of even the fiercest matron of the ton.”
Despite his lingering anxiety, Jasper felt his lips curve up in a slight smile. She really was fascinated by his duel. He suspected she would not be satisfied until she heard the entire story. Because it would provide an excellent way to avoid discussing the intimacy they had just shared, Jasper was more than happy to indulge her.
“We never fired a shot,” Jasper announced.
“Ah, so it was swords.” Her eyes were lit with sinful amusement. “How marvelously barbaric.”
“No, it was pistols, and as I said, neither of us fired a shot.”
Claire’s face broke into a confused frown. “Why?”
“Merry broke it up before either of us was able to pull the trigger.”
“Lady Meredith was present at the duel?” Though there was no one about, Claire lowered her voice to a whisper. “I thought only women with, um . . . well, you know . . . fast reputations attended such events.”
“My sister was hardly an invited guest,” Jasper bristled, remembering all too well the combination of shock and anger he had felt when Meredith had charged up the hill, shouting at the top of her voice for them to cease immediately. “However, she somehow managed to discover not only where and when the duel was being held, but with her usual impeccable timing arrived in time to stop it from occurring.”
“How extraordinary.” Claire’s eyes grew round with astonishment.
“Dardington and I had already squared off and were poised to fire when Meredith approached.”
“What a sight to behold! Lady Meredith must have been nearly frightened out of her wits. If you had fired, she could have easily been struck by a stray bullet. ’Tis amazing she was not injured.” Claire’s cheeks turned a little pink as she looked more closely at her spouse. “You are wearing a most devious smirk, my lord. What are you hiding?”
Jasper ducked his head. “Perhaps there is a bit more to the story,” he admitted, letting his eyes drift over a particularly lush plant. “Meredith never was in any true danger and, alas, my courage in this instance was false. The duel was staged. Though I’ll own it was not the easiest thing to do, I was able to stand and stare down Dardington’s gun barrel because I knew he was going to fire his shot wide, and I, in turn, was going to deliberately miss hitting him.”
Claire raised an eyebrow. “The duel was staged?”
“Exactly.”
“Why would you pull such an elaborate ruse?”
Their eyes met briefly as Jasper recollected the incident. “My sister was being unreasonable about marrying him, so Dardington had to force her hand.”
“ ’Tis rather extreme, though in truth it does not surprise me. Dardington strikes me as a man who gets what he wants.”
Jasper broke into a wicked grin. “He is not the only one I know who possesses such a talent.”
Claire blushed crimson, and he knew she had caught his reference to their recent sexual encounter and his acknowledgment of her part in the incident. As he rose to his feet, Jasper tried to keep his laughter muted, to spare her any further embarrassment. But she must have heard his mirth, for her face remained a bright hue.
They left the conservatory arm in arm, in a companionable mood. The ball was at its zenith when they returned. Intimate groups of guests clustered together along the edges of the room, watching, observing, and chattering. The large wooden dance floor was crowded with colorful silk and satin gowns of every shade, made all the more vibrant as they dipped and swirled under the brightly lit chandelier.
This opulent collage of color contrasted sharply with the black splashes of the gentleman’s evening coats and lent an air of elegance to the entire assembly. As he escorted Claire across the ballroom, Jasper tried to ignore the disapproving glances and tittering smiles that were pointedly sent their way.
Yet, it soon became obvious that nearly everyone was in a fervor of speculation as to exactly what Lord Fairhurst and his bride had been doing. Jasper knew his only hope was to brazen it out. It took discipline, but armed with the knowledge that what really happened would never be known by anyone, he was able to enact the charade.
“Has someone claimed this dance with you?” Lord Fairhurst asked, knowing he needed to separate from Claire as soon as possible. He had already spent far too much time in his wife’s company this evening. The wagging tongues would never cease if they remained together.
“I am uncertain,” Claire answered. She fumbled with the card that dangled from her gloved wrist, then lifted it close to her face and squinted. “Gracious, many of these gentlemen have atrocious penmanship. I can barely decipher the names of some of these entries.”
Mindful of the watching eyes, Jasper attempted to peer over her shoulder and casually read the dance card. The problem was, in addition to the dance card, he had an excellent view of Claire’s luscious breasts partially exposed by the low-cut bodice of her gown.
“I recognize Lord Quimby’s name beside the cotillion,” Jasper choked out, tamping down his suddenly pounding pulse. “I will assist you in locating him.”
He held out his arm, and Claire dutifully clasped it. “Which set are they dancing now?” she whispered, as they began to slowly circulate along the outer edge of the ballroom.
Jasper tightened his mouth into a grim line. “I have no idea.” He stopped, then reconsidered their plan. “Perhaps it would be better if you found a quiet corner and waited for your partners to come to you.”
“All right.”
Grateful for her easy acquiescence, Jasper surveyed the ballroom, searching for an appropriate chaperone with whom to leave his wife. He noticed his mother laughing, and no doubt flirting, with the Earl of Richmond on the opposite side of the room and quickly decided to steer clear of her.
Fortunately, he soon spied his Aunt Louise clustered in a semicircle of cushioned chairs surrounded by an imposing group of matrons. She was his mother’s eldest sister, a stickler for all that was proper and correct, and the perfect choice for a chaperone.
The daughter of an earl and wife of a viscount, Aunt Louise could be outwardly icy at times, yet Jasper had faith that Claire would be able to charm the older woman in short order. And once charmed, she, in turn, would leap to Claire’s defense if anyone so much as breathed an insult in his bride’s direction.
“Ah, Fairhurst, at last. ’Tis about time you brought your bride over for an introduction,” Aunt Louise scolded, when Jasper escorted Claire across the ballroom to greet her.
Jasper bowed and presented his wife; then he waited for his aunt to pass her verdict. In her typical fashion, Aunt Louise made them wait. With great exaggeration, she raised her long-handled lorgnette to her eye and regarded Claire through it.
Jasper could not help but admire how his wife was able to stand so still and quiet when that damnable lorgnette was turned upon her. There had been numerous times throughout his youth when he had wished to pull the object out of his aunt’s hand and crush it under the heel of his sturdiest boot.
“She’s a bit long in tooth, Fairhurst,” Aunt Louise proclaimed, after making a final sweeping assessment of Claire’s person. “I would have expected you to select a young chit right from the schoolroom, so you could mold her into the kind of wife you need.”
“Aunt Louise.” Jasper folded his arms across his chest and bestowed his sternest glare upon her. “Claire is a most suitable—”
“And spirited choice,” Claire interrupted. “Where would the fun and challenge be if Fairhurst married a naive milk and water miss? He would be bored before the month was out.”
Aunt Louise’s lorgnette lowered as her eyebrows soared, but that reaction did not seem to deter Claire.
“May I take the seat beside you, my lady?” she asked. “My husband longs to visit the card room but fears leaving me on my own. As I am sure you are aware, the ton can be so cruel and narrow-minded when it comes to accepting newcomers.”
Without waiting for an answer, Claire placed herself squarely in the chair next to his aunt. For several long moments the older woman sat silently, languidly moving her fan. The battle lines had been drawn. Jasper practically held his breath as he waited for either a smile or an explosion of outrage. One never could be certain with Aunt Louise.
“Your bride is an original, Fairhurst,” Aunt Louise declared. “Even if she is a bit cheeky.”
“She learned it all from me, Aunt,” Jasper said.
The older woman let out a bark of laughter. “That sort of brass ’tis not taught, but rather inherited. I predict you shall have thoroughly incorrigible children. Just as you deserve.”
Realizing that was his cue to leave, Jasper bowed and retreated. After the crush of the ballroom, the idea of escaping to the card room, and male company, was rather appealing, even though he no longer gambled. Once among his fellow gentlemen, Jasper accepted a glass of whiskey he had no intention of drinking, declined a smoke, and set about trying to relax in one of the soft leather chairs.
The room was smoky; the conversation civilized and subdued, accented only by the occasional clink of coins as the players placed their bets. Normally, he would have enjoyed the atmosphere, but Jasper found himself feeling edgy.
Aunt Louise’s mention of children had unwittingly turned his thoughts toward the begetting of his offspring, which brought to the forefront the memory of what had transpired but an hour ago in the conservatory and its implications for his future. The control he so prized was a myth, for he had utterly lost the fight against his impulsiveness and given into his desires.
This placed his entire view and expectation of marriage in a totally different perspective, because he had honestly never expected to be embroiled in such a torrid physical and emotional involvement with his wife. Given all that he knew of her, Jasper would never have believed that Claire possessed the confidence to seduce him so openly and brazenly.
And he also never believed that he would have enjoyed it so much.
The faint buzz of whispered conversation began the moment Lord Fairhurst and his bride returned to the ballroom. Yet, as the speculation ran rampant among the guests, there was one observer who did not need to guess what had kept the couple away from the ballroom for a scandalously long time.
There was one individual who was all too aware of what had occurred between the viscount and his bride. One individual who had grown distressed when they had initially left the party and did not return. One person who had searched among the many rooms of the mansion until they had located the conservatory, had discovered the door was unlocked and ajar, had heard muttered voices and strange sounds, and had been compelled to investigate.
This person had silently, stealthily followed the path in the moonlit glass room and there had seen, most clearly, the aftermath of what had no doubt been an utterly disgusting interlude between the couple—rutting together like two heathen animals, behaving like lower beings without class or breeding.
The stab of disappointment was strong; the pain so intense the individual had almost cried out their distress, and thus almost revealed their position. But self-control had prevailed, and they had slipped away the same way they had come—quietly and undetected.
With each step, the rage coursed through their body, so strong it left a bitter taste in the mouth. Heart racing, palms sweating, pain rolling over them like waves, they had sought privacy in a dark corner of an empty hallway. Slumping to the floor in distress, they tried to convince themselves that the pain would fade, that the wounds they had just received would heal. But that would take time, considerable time.
“You have imbibed more than your share of drink this evening, sir,” a female voice scolded. “Best return the glass to the servant while it is half full.”
“Shut up,” Squire Dorchester retorted.
He shot Miss Rebecca Manning a warning scowl before downing the contents of the glass he held in his hand in three long swallows. And then, just to annoy her further, he summoned one of the duke’s servants and accepted a tumbler full of whiskey from the stone-faced liveried footman.
“You are acting very unwisely,” Rebecca declared. She lifted her chin, folded her arms, and then huffed in that superior air that set Richard’s teeth to grinding.
“I said shut up! I despise women who nag. They are pathetic, utterly pitiful, boring little creatures who cannot hold the attention of a man without resorting to continual whining.”
Predictably, Rebecca’s face crumbled. God, she was so ridiculously easy to torment at times. Yet, surprisingly, that did not lessen Richard’s enjoyment of seeing her suffer.
“I am only trying to protect your reputation,” she said defensively, though her voice held a hint of uncertainty.
“When your assistance is required, I will tell you,” he snapped, knowing she was actually more concerned about her own reputation than his.
“This is London, not some sleepy village in Wiltshire,” she pressed. “The rules are different.”
Her implication that he was not gentleman enough to conduct himself properly at this level of society stung all the more because it held an ounce of truth. Richard felt Rebecca staring at him and knew she was waiting to see if her barb hit its mark. He kept his face impassive to deny her the satisfaction and maintain the upper hand in their relationship.
He had danced with several other women this evening, including her mousy sister Anne, but had deliberately avoided guiding Rebecca onto the floor, knowing it would anger her. She sought now to gain her revenge with this slight, but he would not allow it.
In the few weeks of their acquaintance, Rebecca had fallen quickly under his spell. He had recognized in her a kindred spirit of selfish determination, and he knew how to manipulate it to his advantage.
“What do you know of tonight’s guests of honor?” Richard asked.
“Only the usual gossip.” For an instant, he thought he saw her stiffen with tension, but then Rebecca waved her long, narrow, gloved hands dismissively. “Fairhurst is a stickler for propriety, and his wife is a nobody from the country.”
“They just married?”
“No, they just announced their marriage. ’Tis unclear when the ceremony took place,” she replied in a slightly exasperated, uninterested tone.
Richard took a sip of his whiskey, then stared broodingly into the glass. He had learned little that could aid him since coming to London, and the frustration was starting to take its toll.
“I spied your father looking for you earlier,” the squire said.
“Oh?” Her lips curved deviously. “Perhaps I shall go and find him and leave you to your whiskey. And solitary company.”
“I think you should. He might take pity upon you and partner you in a dance.”
Her eyes darkened, and Richard waited for the explosion. But apparently Rebecca was learning to play the game, because she let out a disdainful sniff, then stalked away.
For an instant, the squire thought to follow her, but then he stopped. It wasn’t good to let her think she had any control over him. Initially, he had required her assistance to gain entry into the more exclusive parties of the Season, but now that he was established with a few key hostesses, the need was not as great.
Still, Richard was reluctant to abandon her altogether, knowing she could prove useful in the future. Besides, the squire had already decided he was going to seduce Rebecca. It seemed likely he would have to remain in London longer than he anticipated, and he could not possibly wait that long without having a woman in his bed.
He might even dangle marriage in front of the silly chit to gain her initial cooperation. Though the idea of forcibly taking her virginity also held great appeal.
Bored now that Rebecca was no longer available to torment, Richard skulled along the edges of the ballroom, searching for a glimpse of Claire. The rush of emotions he had felt upon seeing her for the first time since arriving in London had nearly overtaken him.
Prickling sensations of heat had streaked over his skin at the sight of her so elegantly dressed, so cooly composed, so regally beautiful. It was a strain, but he was able to control his aggression until the tension gripping at him eased.
He was not yet ready to reveal his presence to Claire. This was the first society event she had attended, and Richard predicted there would be other, more advantageous opportunities to confront his prey. Preferably when she was alone.
A bell chimed the hour loud enough to be heard above the swell of conversation. The orchestra had taken a break, allowing the guests an opportunity to mingle and gossip before supper was served. Richard strutted among them, nodding to those he now knew, enjoying his newly established place among this formidable, elite group.
His wanderings eventually brought him to the gentlemen’s card room. He entered on a whim, but he was quickly brought up short by the sight of Viscount Fairhurst seated comfortably in a leather chair near the fireplace.
The cold fury of intense hatred and the burning desire to inflict bodily harm washed over Richard. The prudent course of action dictated that the squire leave, but he had swallowed just enough whiskey to cloud his judgment, and so he ignored that instinct.
“Fairhurst.”
The viscount glanced up. “Good evening.”
His expression was vague, dismissive. To Richard’s eye, insulting.
“Where is your wife?”
Ah, now that caught his attention. Fairhurst placed his drink on the table and slowly rose to his feet. The two men were similar in height, lean and well built, though Fairhurst’s shoulders were broader.
“I take exception, sir, to a stranger inquiring after Lady Fairhurst.”
Richard flushed at the curt tone. “How interesting that you do not recall my name, since we have met on more than one occasion,” the squire replied, his fists clenched at his side. “And I have known your wife more years than you.”
“My apologies.” Fairhurst paused, sending a side glance toward the small crowd of interested gentlemen that were unabashedly listening to the exchange. “Apparently you are a rather forgettable fellow.”
Without wasting a breath, Dorchester burst forward and grabbed Fairhurst by his lapels, shoving him up against the paneled wall. Jealousy consumed his entire being, obliterating the cool composure he had always relied upon to prevent him from creating a scandal and revealing his true nature. But the thought of this man treating him as if he were nothing and nobody and then taking what was rightfully his caused this blinding anger.
“Remove your hands,” Lord Fairhurst said in a strong tone. “You are drunk, sir, and therefore entitled to the courtesy of a warning. However, if you do not release me by the time I cease speaking, I shall take great delight in putting a bullet through your thick skull tomorrow at dawn on Harrows field.”
Though the need to commit a heinous and violent act against his enemy sang through the squire’s blood, a glimmer of self-preservation still remained in his mind. Fairhurst was no London dandy. It was said that he was rather high in the instep these days, but his reputation with both pistol and sword was not to be ignored.
With great reluctance, Richard eased his grip on Lord Fairhurst, then stiffly took a step back. There were a few disappointed grunts from the audience of men, now denied the possibility of bloodshed. The squire nearly called out to assure them that given time he would do battle with the viscount, but even he would not be so foolish as to threaten Fairhurst in so public a manner.
His temper under control, the squire turned to leave, but Lord Fairhurst moved quickly, bringing them face-to-face to square off for another moment. “One word of caution before you go.”
“What?”
“If you ever pull a stunt like that with me again, you shall not leave the room in the same condition that you entered it.”
Richard’s jaw flexed. “A threat?”
“No.” A hint of a smile curled the corners of Fairhurst’s lips. “A promise.”