Chapter 17

What if we marry in truth?

Hours later, Quincy’s words were still swirling in Clara’s mind as she lay in her bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. Tempting her as nothing had in too many lonely years.

She flinched at the thought, guilt sitting heavy on her. No, not lonely. She’d been surrounded by loved ones, had never been without companionship.

Yet hadn’t she still been alone? Her father had been the only one who’d known of her past shame and heartache. And though she had fairly broken his heart with her reckless, thoughtless behavior, he had never wavered in his love and support of her. Something he had let her know day in and day out, through words and actions.

She’d made certain he never knew how deep her wounds cut, and that they would never heal. It was a promise she’d made to herself when she had finally emerged from the darkest days of her life, when she was able to comprehend what her mistake had cost, not only to herself, but to him as well.

With her father’s death she had not only a beloved parent, but her last connection to her child as well. The only proof that her son had even been here was a secret grave overlooking the sea and the small bundle hidden away in her room, containing a lock of palest blond hair and a threadbare blanket she had cried into for years after.

She had spent half her life keeping the memory of that child safe in her heart, at once her most treasured and her most agonizing secret. It was necessary, she’d told herself over and over. If the truth got out, she would be ruined, and by extension her entire family. Most especially Phoebe.

Now, however, as she thought of marrying Quincy, as she considered revealing everything to him, she realized that the fear of ruination, while always her greatest deterrent, was also accompanied by a need to keep the memory of her child protected. If she shared him with others, they would think him a curse, or something to be reviled. And she couldn’t stand his memory to be altered, not when he’d been so perfect in her eyes, that child she would always love and never forget.

Mayhap if Quincy were a mere mister she might have disappeared with him and had a happy life. But he was a duke. If she married him, she would be a duchess. She would be under constant scrutiny, her every move and action combed over. Her past looked at under a microscope. And eventually the truth would come out. Mayhap not that secret child. But the seduction, the ruination, would eventually come to light. She could not do that to Quincy, could not visit that upon him.

But how beautiful life would be if she could marry him and spend the rest of her days loving him.

She did not realize she was crying until her tears began to cool in the night air. She scrubbed at them, wishing she could as easily wipe away her heartache. She would have to watch him leave. With nothing to remember him by but the few kisses they’d shared, nothing to keep her warm as the years passed but a handful of passionate embraces.

Anger flared bright. Rolling on her side, she punched her pillow before pulling it tight against her chest, as if it could extinguish the fury building in her. She’d been foolish and naïve, allowing herself to be manipulated by that man when she’d been a girl. Her future had been stolen from her before she’d been able to claim it.

She shook her head sharply, her hair grating against her sheets. She wasn’t foolish or naïve now. And she decided, then and there, she did not want to spend the rest of her life with that long-ago act as her only remembrance of physical love. She would not take to her grave the hasty groping she’d endured with a man who had thought only of himself. No, she wanted something passionate and loving to remember as she grew old. With a man who had shown her nothing but respect from the first.

She was throwing off her covers before she knew what she was doing. She didn’t falter when she reached his room, raising her hand and knocking lightly at the door. In a moment it was thrown open.

Quincy’s chest was bare, his feet as well, his snug-fitting breeches leaving little to her imagination. His hair was damp from a recent bath and falling over his forehead in inky waves. His eyes flared wide when he saw her.

“Clara. What are you doing here?”

In answer she pushed into the room, closing the door firmly behind her, giving the key a twist in the lock for good measure. Then she turned to face him.

The cautious hope that flared in his eyes nearly undid her. She held up a hand to stop the words that were forming on his lips, knowing if he renewed his question to her, the one she had promised to think over in a moment of madness, she would not be able to do what she had come here for.

“I’m not here to accept your proposal,” she said, aware of a trembling in her voice but unable to control it. “I still have no plans to marry. I need you to understand that.”

She looked closely at him. His lips pressed tight, disappointment clear in his face. But he nodded.

She cleared her throat, suddenly unsure how to continue. How did one go about asking for a night of lovemaking? She suddenly had a new respect for the widows in society who had the confidence to carry on affairs. This was no easy feat.

Finally, deciding that transparency was the only way to broach this delicate situation, she straightened her shoulders and looked him square in the eye.

“I want you to take me to your bed.”

He drew in a sharp breath, longing and desire and shock and worry all coalescing in his face. “Clara—”

“I know this is highly unconventional,” she continued, cutting him off for fear he would refuse her outright. “And I know that unmarried women don’t often participate in…these things.” She cleared her throat, feeling the heat of a blush staining her cheeks but refusing to back down. “But I am not an innocent you need worry about marrying. I am a grown woman who has decided to take control of her desires. And the truth of the matter is, I want you.”

His dark eyes, glowing in the faint light from the fire in the hearth, flared with heat. She took it as encouragement to continue.

Nevertheless, it was no easy thing to get to the business side of such an arrangement. She cleared her throat and, laying her hands flat on the door behind her to keep from keeling over, said in a voice that shook only a small bit, “I want you, and I would very much like to spend a night with you. I, of course, have requirements.”

He blinked. “Requirements?”

“Yes. You need to understand that this is in no way a promise of a future relationship between us. It is merely physical, two people enjoying one another, one night of passion.” She took strength from his nod to soldier on. “I also need to know that there will be every effort made to prevent a child. You are a man of the world; I assume you know of such things.” Again a nod, this time hesitant but firm nonetheless. “Good,” she said on a relieved breath.

But with that all gone over, her bravado left her. She pushed away from the door, clasping her hands before her, her gaze falling to his bare feet on the polished wood floor. How did one move to the next step in these things? Did she simply kiss him? Did she wait for him to remove her clothes? Did she climb under the covers and wait for him to come to her?

The seconds ticked past. Still he remained silent. Her nerves began to fray. Perhaps she had misread him. It was possible; hadn’t her history proved she was not the best judge of character? She shifted, pressing her bare toes into the floor. Wishing she could sink into it and disappear.

Instead she said, her voice small, “Unless, that is, you have no wish to.”

Immediately he was there, pulling her into his arms. She went gladly, burying her face against his chest as he stroked strong hands over her back.

“Of course I want to, you silly woman,” he whispered into the crown of her hair. “I have wanted to from the moment I met you. You are beautiful, and desirable. But more than that, you are loving, and passionate, and strong. How could I fail to care for you? How could I help but—”

She tensed, her entire body going rigid in his arms. Surely he wouldn’t declare himself in love with her. It would be the cruelest joke life could play on her, to have this amazing man, who she had grown to love so very much, equally in love with her. One broken heart when this ended would be bad enough.

“How could I help but want you,” he finished. He kissed the top of her head before putting her away from him. “I want you so much I can hardly see straight when I’m with you. Even when we’re not together I think about you, dream about you…”

She laid a hand on his bare chest. His muscles bunched under her fingers, his ragged breath giving proof to his words. She ached to admit she felt the same. Instead she whispered, “I would have some beautiful memories to hold on to after you leave.”

“Clara,” he rasped, “you deserve more.”

She couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped her. “Mayhap long ago.”

Something intense lit his eyes. Not wanting to see what her small, unintentional confession might have stirred up in him—whether that be questions, or pity, or disgust—she dropped her gaze. A muscle ticced in his jaw, a day’s growth of beard shadowing it, the tight press of his lips proof of his disquiet. But at least it was not his eyes, so open and revealing, telling her things she didn’t want to know. She swallowed hard and continued.

“I want this, Quincy. I want you.” And then, “Please.”

The word had barely left her lips before she was once more in his arms. Her hands gripped tight to the smooth expanse of his shoulders, a tremor going through her as he pressed his lips to the side of her neck.

“You’re certain?” he rasped. “You’ll tell me if you want me to stop?”

She drew in a shuddering breath, his scent filling her, the clean smell of his sandalwood soap making her dizzy with longing. “I won’t want you to stop.”

“Promise me you’ll tell me if you wish for me to stop,” he pushed.

Her heart lurched, tears burning her eyes at his insistence that, no matter what, he would not allow her to regret this. Yes, she had given her heart to the right man. Though he could never know just how desperately she loved him.

“I promise,” she whispered.

Those two words unleashed a raw desperation she had not known he’d kept hidden. He pressed his mouth, open and hot, against the side of her neck. His teeth scraped the tender skin, his low groan vibrating through her until she thought she’d shatter. Suddenly his arms swept beneath her, lifting her, cradling her to his chest. He strode across the room and lowered her to the bed as if she were a priceless treasure.

“I’ll make certain you won’t regret a minute of this,” he vowed, his hot gaze finding hers in the dim light.

She reached for him, pulling his head down to hers, pressing her forehead to his. “I could never regret being with you, Quincy.”

Questions swam in his eyes, and a tenderness that touched her down to her soul. Frightened of the feelings he was dredging up, she took his mouth in a kiss, hoping to bury the bone-deep need to confess her past sins, to accept his proposal and spend the rest of her days with him. She would forget the past, forget the future. Her entire world was here and now in his arms.

He needed no further urgings. He kissed her with a desperation matched only by the one deep inside her, a need to lose themselves in one another, to make this coming together as beautiful as possible so it might remain with them long after their parting.

His eager fingers grasped the hem of her nightgown, pulling it up and working it over her head. His mouth found hers again when she was free of the garment, and he pressed her down into the soft mattress, his bare chest meeting the straining tips of her breasts, making her gasp into his mouth.

He lifted his head, his dark eyes searing into her own, the tenderness in them going straight to her heart. “So beautiful,” he whispered as he stroked a loose curl back from her cheek. “So passionate.” He shook his head in wonder. “You are amazing.”

Tears burned. She blinked them back, wanting nothing to mar this perfect moment. “Love me, Quincy,” she breathed.

“I do.”

Not I will, but I do. Before the ramifications of those two simple words could destroy her, he dipped his head, letting his lips trail along the length of her neck. And she was lost.

He worshipped her skin. That was the only possible description for the kisses he trailed over her, each one full of the tenderness that had been present in his voice, hinting at so much more. When his lips found her breast she arched up, eager for what was to come. And he didn’t hold back, his mouth opening over the straining tip. Fire pooled between her legs and she let out a low moan, her fingers diving into the soft, still-damp waves of his hair.

His hands, too, were driving her wild, and everywhere at once, plumping her breast for his kisses, trailing down her side, gripping her hip. When they trailed over her belly, she held her breath. And then he was dipping his fingers between her legs, and she had to bite her lip to keep her eagerness from rending the air.

“So ready for me,” he gasped, caressing her folds, the slickness there creating a dizzying sensation. She opened her legs, pressing up against his hand, silently begging for more.

In answer he trailed kisses lower. Before she could react to the unexpectedness of it, he came to the core of her, pressing his mouth against the thatch of curls there. And everything was forgotten.

With tongue and teeth and lips he loved her, and that part of her quickly became the very center of her universe. He drew her into his mouth, stroking his tongue over her folds, starting up a rhythm that had her rocking her hips against him. She gripped tight to his head in silent encouragement. He let loose a growl of approval, his fingers digging into her hips, and she threw her head back as the pleasure brought by his clever mouth sent her higher and higher. When he slipped a finger into her, she came undone.

Bright white light exploded behind her lids, as if she had soared up past constricting storm clouds to find herself in brilliant sunlight. She hung there, suspended, for one incredible moment, before drifting back to earth. She opened her eyes to find Quincy beside her. He brushed back hair from her temple and smiled.

She returned the smile, her chest light, her body deliciously relaxed. In all her imaginings she’d never dreamed such pleasure existed. And yet she wasn’t tired; not in the least. Rather, Quincy had awakened her to a joy she hadn’t thought possible. She tugged on his shoulders, letting him know this was in no way over.

He understood immediately. Rolling from her, he removed his breeches. And then he was over her again, and sliding between the welcoming cradle of her legs, the low hiss of pleasure telling her more than words that he was as affected as she by the feel of their bare skin coming together, of his hard muscles pressing into her softer curves with nothing between them. The desire that had been sated in her burst into glorious life.

“I want you inside me,” she whispered, her lips trailing hungrily over the side of his neck.

He shuddered, her name escaping his lips, a benediction in the quiet night air. He pushed forward, the blunt tip of him poised at her entrance before, with a low groan, he slid inside her.

There was not a single moment of discomfort or pain. She held him tightly as he slowly buried himself, each inch exquisite torture.

“Are you well?”

His anxious words rasped against her shoulder, his muscles straining under her hands, his back slick with the sweat of the effort of holding himself still. There would be no words, she knew, that would ease his mind. His every concern was centered on her well-being, and would not be easily waylaid.

To calm his worries the only way she knew how, she wrapped her legs about his lean hips and guided him farther into her.

He gasped, raising his head, looking down into her face. She smiled, stroking a lock of hair from his forehead. “Quincy.”

He groaned, taking her lips in a kiss, the desperation and longing in it matched by the thrust of his hips as he began to move inside her. Her fingers scored his back, her hips moving in time with his, the pleasure building higher than before until she felt she might never come back down.

He ripped his mouth free, pressing it to the side of her neck. “Come for me, Clara,” he whispered, the words searing her from the inside out. “I want to feel you come around me.”

And she did, breaking apart into jagged pieces before realigning into someone completely new. As the last quivers of pleasure shimmied through her trembling body he pulled himself free and, his breath harsh in her ear, spent himself in the rumpled sheets at her side.

Sated, near exhaustion, she was hardly aware as he whisked the sheet from the bed, dragging a warm blanket up over her limp body before sliding in beside her and pulling her into his arms.

They lay there for a time, saying nothing, as the fire in the hearth burned down and the night air cooled. She had never felt so safe as she was right now, held tight in his arms, her head on his chest and his heart beating steadily under her ear. His fingers trailed languidly over her arm, his breath blowing soft in her hair. Her eyelids grew heavy, contentment filling her. How easy it would be to drift off to sleep.

But she would not allow it. This moment was fleeting as it was; she would not waste a second of it in sleep. Instead she would focus on every detail to better remember it, from the curling of dark hair sprinkled over his broad chest, to the strength of his thigh between her own, to the soft kiss he placed on the crown of her head.

But her eyelids were growing heavier. Just as slumber was about to take over, however, he spoke.

“Clara, we need to talk.”

His voice rumbled under her ear, the familiar sound of it soothing her. So much so that, for a brief moment, she couldn’t understand the implications of his words.

When she did, however, she tensed. “Quincy—”

“Please, Clara, hear me out.”

She lurched upright, breaking his hold on her, and looked down into his face. Her heart beat out a frantic rhythm, the sight of the grim determination in his dark eyes stealing her breath.

“I told you my requirements, Quincy,” she said low. “This was not a promise of a future for us.”

“I understand,” he soothed. “But can you at least consider—”

“I have considered it,” she broke in, longing and frustration and anger and grief all fighting for dominance. “And I will not marry you.”

“Will not, or cannot?”

“What’s the difference?”

“There is every difference.” He reached up, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, his face infinitely tender. “Clara, you must know I lo—”

“Don’t,” she rasped, turning away from him and pulling the covers up over her breasts. “Please, don’t say it. It will only make things worse.”

He was silent for a moment, the ticking of the mantel clock and the faint crack and pop of the dying hearth fire the only sounds in the room. When he spoke again his voice was careful, cautious, as if he was afraid she would shatter. “Clara, I don’t care what may have happened in your past. I want you as my wife.”

She pressed her burning eyes to her knees. “No—”

“Clara.” He sat up, his arms going around her, his lips fervent on the nape of her neck. “I know something or someone has hurt you. And I swear I won’t press you to tell me. Whatever it is, it’s yours to reveal when you’re ready. But it won’t affect my feelings for you. I want to marry you, Clara; that won’t change.”

She shuddered. “You don’t know that,” she rasped into her knees, fighting the desire to lean back into his embrace, joy and despair warring in her.

“I do.” When she only shook her head he let out a frustrated breath. “Just don’t say no yet. Please. Let me prove my sincerity to you.”

Temptation swirled in her. How easy it would be to take that leap, to entrust Quincy with this thing that ate at her from the inside. She was certain he believed his own words. The earnestness in his voice was clear even to one as untrusting as her.

But once that Pandora’s box was opened it could never be closed again. She needed to protect her son’s memory with everything in her. And she needed to protect Quincy from himself. Even were his feelings to somehow remain unchanged, he could not know the weight that such a truth had on one’s soul, what the constant fear of discovery did to a person’s spirit. If it were ever made public—and there was every reason to believe that his mother would be only too happy to see her humiliated—he would hate her for it.

But his arms were wrapped about her like a blanket, his lips doing tender things to the nape of her neck, his scent filling her up, and those logical arguments were losing their strength by the second. Instead they were being taken over by imaginings of what could be, small vignettes of waking beside him in the mornings, sharing quiet conversation beside a fire, laughing as they dressed for an evening out.

Ah, God, she wanted that life with him.

“I need time,” she rasped.

“I can give you that,” he vowed. “I can stay beyond Phoebe’s wedding; we can work things out. You can take all the time you need.”

“No,” she said, her voice overloud in the quiet of the room, knowing that the longer he stayed the more he would work under her skin, tempting her, when she needed this decision made on clear facts. “I’ll decide before then.”

“Very well,” he murmured, his hands rubbing with infinite care over the tense curve of her back.

She nodded, then made to throw off the covers and rise from his bed. His hand stayed her.

“Please don’t go,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes. “Quincy—”

“I swear I won’t attempt to sway you. I only want to hold you, Clara.”

Her body responded to the raw need in his voice before her mind could. She turned back to him, stretching out alongside his hard body, wrapping herself around him even as his arms drew her flush to him. She would focus on the here and now, and not on the impossible decision she had to make in the coming days. And certainly not on the bitter irony that, lying beside him here in the dark, her heart had finally found where it belonged.