Chapter Seven

The coachman situated Markham’s carriage across from Gunter’s and beneath a large tree in Berkley Square. Yellowing leaves teased from low-hanging branches, and, even from the inside of the carriage, the pleasant scent of the season filled the air.

On the other side of the carriage, Julia and Horatia happily chatted, but Clarissa barely noticed. Her eyes remained fixed to Gunter’s’ window, where Markham was placing their order.

How—Clarissa chewed her bottom lip—was it possible to rub away the effects of a kiss on her lips and still have a tingling sensation linger in her toes?

And why, after more than an hour, could she not think about anything else?

Perhaps it had been the odd light he’d had in his eyes when she told him she’d buy his ice. A light that said he’d take anything she was willing to offer.

Instead of settling down during the carriage ride here, she’d grown restless and snappish and totally intent on one thing—Markham.

Julia had claimed carriage sickness, and so this time Clarissa had been seated right next to him. Markham’s thigh rubbed against her own, igniting a twisting sort of pressure…pressure that promised something far more interesting if she would allow greater contact.

What more, she didn’t know.

But she desperately wanted to find out. Her whole body cried out—I want.

Maybe that’s why they called Markham Hearts.

They’d had only one outing and already Clarissa had experienced some of the most powerful sensations of her life.

If two chaste kisses…

Although, one could argue, their second kiss had not been strictly chaste.

When Markham had grasped the tender valley between her waist and her hip, that same tight feeling of duress she was experiencing now had twisted her insides, spiraling all the way down into her groin.

But still, if two mostly chaste kisses and a few sultry stares could make her feel as if she must get closer to Markham or combust…where would a courtship that lasted for weeks lead?

And if chaste kisses could render her so needy, what would passionate kisses do?

Her mind went blank. Her ears dulled to sound. Some thoughts were so dangerous—they simply incinerated.

Julia and Horatia broke into loud laughter. Welcoming any distraction, she followed their gaze to a handsome young man seated inside a carriage two over.

At least this time, they were not laughing at her expense.

“Lady Clarissa,” Horatia asked. “Do you know the young man over there with his mother?”

The man in question was not alone in the carriage. A woman was speaking to him in tones too low to hear. She was angled in a way that made impossible to identify. However, her earrings were jostling as she spoke.

Apparently, the young man was being harangued.

Probably deservedly so.

She tried to figure out the gentleman’s identity, but his hat shaded his profile.

“I’m not sure I know either of them,” she replied.

“He’s quite handsome,” Horatia said.

Julia wrinkled her nose. “If, I suppose, you are partial to pink-cheeked men. He’s far too young for me. He hasn’t any sign of a beard.”

“You do realize he’s older than you,” Horatia replied.

Julia shrugged. “Still too young for me to consider.”

“Julia!” Horatia’s hand flew to her chest.

“What?” Julia glanced between the empty carriage on the right to the empty carriage on the left. “No gossips. Therefore, I may say what I like.”

Clarissa smirked. “I’m intrigued by your rules, Julia.”

“A reputation is a fragile thing,” Julia replied. “Or so my sister always warns me. And Bromton tells me I must take more care than most because I’m an incurable… What’s the word he uses?”

“Firebrand,” Horatia supplied.

“Ah yes.” Julia grinned, clearly pleased. “Firebrand.”

Clarissa chuckled. “I can see how a firebrand might wish to limit chances for trouble.”

Horatia leaned forward and whispered, “Julia keeps a list.”

“A list?”

“Of gossips,” Julia explained. “Anyone who says one thing and whispers another, anyone who looks on with disgust when a lady dresses in something particularly stunning, anyone who bitterly complains that the young no longer behave as they ought”—Julia made a sweeping motion—“they all go on my list.”

“The avoidance list,” Horatia added.

“In other words,” Clarissa mused, “you limit companions to those unconcerned with matters you find trivial.”

“Yes!” Julia beamed.

Clarissa only wished she’d been so clever.

But Julia hadn’t accomplished the feat of staying out of trouble’s way alone, had she? They’d all been watching out for Julia and Horatia, obliquely—and sometimes overtly—steering them away from men like Moultonbury.

A lady could not underestimate the value of a few experienced friends.

Clarissa hadn’t had any such women—or men—in her life when she’d first made her curtsy. Unless she counted her ill-fated betrothal—which she did not, as that had been more about a Bromton investment in the Rayne mines—no one, in fact, had ever watched out for her reputation.

No one, that is, until Markham.

She glanced back to Markham as he descended Gunter’s stairs.

Perhaps he seemed glib only because he moved with an ease no other gentleman could match. Every movement he made was without artifice, fully present. He carried himself as if he were loose…unburdened—aware of his body, and yet also supremely confident.

Had his confidence come from pleasuring women?

Her skin practically greened with envy.

I want.

Her mouth watered…and not only in anticipation of her ice.

Markham opened the door to the carriage. Behind him, a waiter held several colorful heaping glasses on a tray.

“Two orders of orange flowers and jasmine roses.” He handed the glasses to Horatia and Julia. “Cedrati and bergamot chips for Lady Clarissa…”

She accepted her ice. Had he guessed why she’d ordered the bergamot chips?

“And for me,”—he winked at Clarissa—“bergamot with currant and cinnamon.”

Oh, he’d guessed, all right.

And there was that acknowledgment again—the silent communication that said, I saw, I understand.

He shook hands with the waiter, possibly slipping him a vail. Clarissa couldn’t see, but the waiter returned to the shop with a wider smile.

Their hands brushed as Markham returned her change.

“Do you mind if I join the other gentlemen by the rail?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Clarissa replied, quelling disappointment. It would have been odd for him to come back into the carriage—every other gentleman present but the one Julia and Horatia had pointed out, were gathered by the park.

She admired the way his coat fitted to his shoulders as he sauntered over to an empty spot. He swiveled around and leaned back against the railing. Too intent on his treat to notice she was watching, he rested one ankle atop his other—a ridiculously appealing portrait of effortless nonchalance.

She almost looked away, but then he lifted a spoon to his mouth, closed his lips around the ice, and shut his eyes. He smiled slowly, his brow smoothing into an expression of pure pleasure.

Heat washed through her body. Gracious.

She’d paid for that ice…and the result was worth every pence.

He took another bite, relishing the flavor with a depth of feeling that appeared almost carnal.

Strike the almost.

Gunter’s was an acceptable place for men and women to be seen together, but, clearly, whoever had made that decision had not seen Markham devour an ice.

He took a third bite.

Was it wrong that she wanted to be that spoon?

Wait. Did that mean she actually wanted Markham to lick her?

Her eyes widened involuntarily. They locked eyes—for a long moment only the two of them existed. Markham flushed scarlet. He lifted himself to standing and then broke their gaze and looked away.

Again, she’d allowed him to see something raw and vulnerable, but this time, he hadn’t acknowledged her. He hadn’t even winked.

Instead, he’d left her need exposed and unanswered.

How could he look away?

“I know him!” Horatia exclaimed.

“What was that?” Clarissa asked, blinking.

“The handsome young man in the ridiculously tall beaver-skin hat. The one two carriages over. He’s Mr. Jeremy Pritchett”

“Just a Mr.?” Julia asked.

“Yes, just a Mr.” Horatia replied with pinched little lips. “Mama said he has potentiality.”

Which meant, like as not, that the young man in the beaver hat was heir to some fortune. A vast one, if the duchess had been impressed.

Clarissa glanced back down the row of carriages.

She still did not recognize the man, but the woman had turned, and her profile was clear—Mrs. Sartin. Her gaze, too, had been fastened to Markham, and Clarissa now understood the lady’s expression all too well.

Hunger.

Of course, Clarissa’s reaction to Markham had not been unique. Had she actually deceived herself into believing it was? Why, any number of women had known Markham’s kiss.

Dozens, probably.

And they all had shivered with exactly the same want.

Mrs. Sartin met Clarissa’s gaze, and the faintest of smiles graced the older woman’s lips. Clarissa tried—and failed—to return the smile. Mrs. Sartin dipped her chin and, in a manly gesture, touched her hat, before turning back to her heir.

No longer craving bergamot chips, Clarissa set the rest of her ice on the floor of the carriage. She folded her hands primly in her lap and pressed herself as closely to the far side of the carriage as she could.

She’d needed that reminder.

Markham was Hearts.

Which meant she must guard her own at all costs.

…

One minute, Markham had been enjoying his much-awaited ice. The next, he had locked eyes with Clarissa and had instantly succumbed to the dreaded full-body flush. He couldn’t have prevented the blush if he’d tried—his body had simply responded to the yearning in Clarissa’s gaze.

Responded? No, inflamed.

No one—no one—had ever looked at him with such naked starvation.

Suddenly, even the ice melting in his mouth was not enough to keep him cool.

He lifted himself off the rail so that his coat could preserve some modesty—the last thing he wanted Clarissa to see was evidence of his raging cockstand.

He didn’t want to scare her.

He wanted to excite her.

He wanted to take her to his bed, lay her across his sheets, undo the ties of her bodice and stays, and free her beautiful breasts. Then he wanted to trace the blue veins beneath her pale skin and watch her mouth fall open and her nipples darken as they hardened into pointed tips.

If Clarissa liked what his lips could do to a spoon—and the fire in her eyes said she had—she’d love how he went about devouring those sensitive peaks.

He imagined driving her mad with teasing until her body arched from his mattress. Only after she was gasping for breath in desperate little pants would he disrobe and show his betrothed exactly what rubbing her shapely thighs against his did to his manhood…and what sensations his manhood could provoke when he deliberately stroked the tip against her maidenhead until her thighs quivered.

He sucked in his lips.

Well that had gotten very detailed, very fast.

He was in So. Much. Trouble.

Clarissa wasn’t his betrothed. She wasn’t his in any way. And she couldn’t be. Not in the way they both desired.

He looked away. Just for a moment.

He dug his spoon into his ice and scooped out as big a serving as he could manage. Coward. He returned his gaze to her, but she’d already occupied herself elsewhere.

The spell had broken. He followed her gaze to a carriage he instantly recognized.

His blush deepened.

Mrs. Sartin’s carriage. He knew it well.

In fact, last spring, he’d pleasured Mrs. Sartin in that very carriage, her cries absorbed by the sound of the horserace. A three-minute track was all he’d needed to drive the woman to a frenzy.

Sordid, indeed.

Damnation. Had he been the only one who hadn’t realized he was a rake?

His spoon clinked against his cup as he abandoned his ice.

Mrs. Sartin’s carriage door opened, and a young man stepped out. Markham recognized him as one of Moultonbury’s bucks—the one who had spoken out several times. The man who had given his name…

Ah, yes. Pritchett.

Pritchett’s over-tall hat sat purposely askew on the man’s head. He puffed out his chest wider than natural or necessary. His cravat was tied in the same way as Moultonbury’s had been—the style Markham had crushed in a single fist.

In short, Pritchett was everything Markham loathed in a young man.

Everything Markham had once been, as a matter of fact.

And might still be, if it weren’t for his debt and the fact that Moultonbury had insulted Katherine, unintentionally revealing another side to what Society referred to as harmless teasing.

Boys will be boys.

Markham thought he’d improved in character. Then he realized he had a rake’s reputation, and now he’d just indulged in a lewd fantasy—in public.

He had not learned as much as he ought.

Pritchett held out his hand. Mrs. Sartin placed her glove in his and descended. Together, they turned in Markham’s direction. The last thing he wanted was to interact with either of them, but he’d dallied too long. He could not avoid them now.

Slowly—at roughly the speed of certain doom—they made their way to the rail.

“Mr. Pritchett,” Markham greeted.

“Lord Markham,” Pritchett replied.

Mrs. Sartin glanced between them. “I wasn’t aware the two of you were acquainted.”

“Only just,” Markham replied.

“The night before last,” Pritchett explained. “At Sharpe’s.”

“Ah yes, Sharpe’s.” Some unspoken communication passed between her and the young man. “How lovely,” Mrs. Sartin said. “My heir and my”—she paused—“good friend.”

Her heir? Hadn’t she said her heir was older than he was? Pritchett was younger, though not, he supposed, by much.

His consternation amused the lady. “You could learn a lot from Lord Markham, Jeremy.”

Pritchett bowed his head. “I’m sure I could.”

“I thought I recognized your carriage, Markham.” Mrs. Sartin’s eyes were definitely laughing now. “Is that Lady Clarissa I see inside?”

“Lord Markham,” Pritchett said, “is courting Lady Clarissa.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Sartin replied. “So she’s the one…?”

Pritchett nodded.

Mrs. Sartin’s gaze moved between the carriage and Markham. “Why, aren’t you a devil, Lord Markham. I hadn’t heard a word before this morning.”

“Lord Rayne is traveling,” Markham replied tightly, “discretion is a must.”

“Diamonds is about to return, isn’t he?” Mrs. Sartin asked rhetorically. “I, for one, cannot wait. I am simply starved for company.” She glanced back to the carriage. “Mr. Pritchett tells me he’s never been introduced to Lady Clarissa.” She lifted a brow. “You wouldn’t mind doing the honor, would you, Lord Markham?”

Markham swallowed. “Of course not.”

Markham strode slightly ahead, hoping to wordlessly communicate with Clarissa all he could not say aloud. Clarissa, however, refused to meet his gaze, not even while he made the requested introductions.

Instead, Clarissa spoke gayly—a little too gayly—about the weather with Mrs. Sartin, while Pritchett, Horatia, and Julia fell into a separate conversation about umbrellas.

It was impossible to follow both.

Markham turned his attention back to Mrs. Sartin and Clarissa.

“No,” Mrs. Sartin was saying. “There doesn’t appear to be a hint of rain at the moment, though a few hours past I was certain the sky was about to open.” She glanced askance at Markham. “The rain’s been so common of late, I almost believed I’d developed an affinity.”

“For rain?” Markham asked.

“For rain,” Mrs. Sartin answered. “I’m rich enough to be permitted my eccentricities, you know.”

Markham frowned.

“I imagine,” Clarissa replied, “a shelter is suitable on such occasions.”

Mrs. Sartin’s smile widened. “Convenient, perhaps. But no woman would wish to sit over-long, no matter how fine the shelter.”

Markham closed his eyes.

Please let them be talking about the actual weather.

“And you, Lady Clarissa?” Mrs. Sartin asked. “Have you developed an affinity for rain?”

“I am not permitted eccentricities,” Clarissa replied carefully. “Therefore, I prefer to remain inside.”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Sartin chuckled. “Never allow a little bad weather to scare you. There’s much to be admired in the rain.”

Clarissa lifted her brows. “The rain already has too many admirers.”

“Darling.” Mrs. Sartin smiled warmly. “That should make you more interested.”

Markham went utterly still.

They were decidedly not discussing the weather.

Women not only talked, apparently, they spoke in a language men did not understand.

What more of this mysterious women’s world had he missed?

“Ho!” Pritchett called suddenly. “Moultonbury!”

And Markham had believed the moment could not get any worse.

“Jeremy,” Mrs. Sartin said under her breath. “You should have asked the ladies if they’d been introduced first.”

“We have,” Julia said, with an odd note in her voice.

Markham couldn’t be sure, but when he glanced up, he thought he caught Horatia mouthing the list to Clarissa.

What list?

How many blasted languages did women juggle?

“Pritchett, Markham.” Moultonbury stopped by the side of the carriage. “Ladies.” He touched his hat. “Would you look at that? Not a single smile among them. What is happening in this world? How is it, that three such charming women—”

“Four,” Clarissa interrupted.

“Pardon?” Moultonbury asked.

“Four women,” Clarissa clarified. “Myself, Lady Horatia, Lady Julia and Mrs. Sartin. You wouldn’t wish to be rude, would you?”

“Four women.” Moultonbury glanced at Mrs. Sartin. “And still not a smile among you.”

“I endeavor to smile only when happy,” Mrs. Sartin replied. “And, interruptions do not make me happy.”

Horatia put her hand over her mouth.

Discreetly, Julia pulled Horatia’s hand back down.

Moultonbury raised his quizzing glass. “Have we been introduced?” he asked Mrs. Sartin.

“We have, Lord Moultonbury,” Mrs. Sartin replied. “By your mother, in fact. On several occasions.” She turned away, effectively cutting Moultonbury. “Comity is so important. Lady Clarissa, don’t you agree?”

“Very much so,” Clarissa replied, biting back a smile.

“Why,” Mrs. Sartin continued, “I was just telling Mr. Pritchett how scarce the tickets for the operatic performance for the Benefit of the Society for the Relief of the Infirm and Aged sponsored by Queen Charlotte have become. I’m Chair, you know.”

“Oh!” Lady Horatia clapped. “My mother said it’s going to be the event of the Season. We had our tickets weeks ago.”

“His Grace is a generous patron,” Mrs. Sartin replied.

“Is it true there’s to be dancing after the performance?” Horatia asked.

“Yes. And, after a light repast, fireworks.” Mrs. Sartin glanced back to Moultonbury. “It’s such a shame tickets are so difficult to come by. The Dowager Lady Moultonbury expressly wished to attend.” Mrs. Sartin touched Markham’s arm. “I’m so glad you had the forethought to reserve enough for your family and Lady Clarissa, Lord Markham.”

Markham hadn’t, of course.

Could it be he had an ally in Mrs. Sartin?

“Markham,” Clarissa said in a smoothly admiring voice Markham had never heard before, “is always thoughtful.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Markham bowed slightly.

He thrilled to her blush as her smile nearly knocked him on his heels.

“Yes, he is,” Mrs. Sartin agreed. “And when you dance, I’m sure the two of you will be the envy of all.”

“I’ve been counting down the days,” Clarissa replied. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Sartin. It was delightful to see you again. But Lord Markham”—she touched his arm—“I’m afraid we simply must return Lady Julia and Lady Horatia to Shepthorpe House. Her Grace will be worried if we are not home before dusk.”

“Of course,” Markham replied.

“Au revoir, all.” Mrs. Sartin touched her hat. “Do come along, Jeremy.”

Moultonbury turned and walked stiffly away, ears pinked.

Markham climbed inside the carriage and rapped on the top, signaling the coachman to proceed.

“What the devil just happened?” he said under his breath.

“Mrs. Sartin,” Julia said with a laugh, “just gave the devil his due.”

Clarissa’s thigh brushed his. “And we,” she said, “just agreed to make the benefit for the Society for the Relief of the Infirm and Aged the talk of the town.”