Chapter Eight

On the appointed night, Markham fidgeted as he awaited Clarissa at the bottom of Lady Darlington’s stairs. He reached beneath the wrist of his topcoat and tugged on his already tightly fitted gloves.

Everything had to be just right. Satisfied, he reviewed his guidelines for escorting Lady Clarissa to the operatic performance for the Benefit of the Society for the Relief of the Infirm and Aged.

He had broken every one of his long-standing rules where Clarissa was concerned, but he ought to be able to manage three simple guidelines for a single evening…

One—attend the benefit together with a respectable party, including Lady Clarissa, Katherine and Bromton, and Philippa and Darlington. (And do not, under any circumstances, take the seat beside Clarissa in the carriage, not to the performance and definitely not on the way home).

Two—remain attentive throughout the evening. (i.e., be respectful and admiring, but do not allow a gaze to drop below Clarissa’s chin. And absolutely no imagined seductions.).

Three—dance with Lady Clarissa. Once. Although said dance should not be a waltz.

Since he rarely danced, once should be sufficient enough to cause mild comment, but not enough to inspire censure.

Markham tapped his foot silently against the black and white marble floor.

If he stuck to those guidelines, the evening should proceed respectably. Well-ordered. Controlled.

He reached up to adjust his cravat, and then dropped his hand.

He wanted to be uncomfortable. He’d instructed his valet to starch the collar to the heavens, and to use his tightest Gordon knot—he needed all the help he could get maintaining strict adherence to rule number two. And with the high collar points that rose above his jawline, he couldn’t even incline his head or turn his neck from side to side.

Clarissa appeared on the Darlington’s landing, nearly shimmering, and he discovered the flaw in his stiff collar’s purpose—stairs.

From this vantage, not noticing how snugly the neo-classical lines of her dress gathered beneath her breasts was impossible. The sheer white mull had been embroidered in vines of gold, ending in open leaves that practically presented the bounty. If that was not enough, a pale cameo hung from her pearl necklace, nestling just about the place he’d like to press his lips.

She rested one high-gloved, slender arm against the banister and descended. Her overdress—a light blue silk matching the color of her eyes—trailed behind.

From experience, he knew the sheer underdress likely tied at her nape, and at the center of her back. The overdress was obviously held together by a jeweled clasp. Neither should prove too hard to remove if he were close enough to—

Mentally, he shook his head and folded his hands together at his front.

Remember rule number three.

He hadn’t yet broken the rule, strictly speaking. They hadn’t yet left Lord Darlington’s house and he’d only thought about how he’d disassemble her dress. He hadn’t imagined the actual process. However, the evening had yet to begin, and already he’d come far too close.

Attentive, Percival Stanley, not consumed.

He greeted Clarissa with a kiss to her fingers.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

Her cheeks darkened to a lovely rose. “And you are”—her gaze dropped to his collar—“quite modish tonight.”

“Do you approve?”

The light from the chandelier twinkled in her eyes. “Dear Percy, your appearance has never been the problem.”

Only Clarissa could manage an insult and compliment in the same sentence. But although Katherine’s use of his childhood name had always annoyed him, from Clarissa the intimacy further piqued his sense of singular rapport.

She turned toward Katherine and Philippa, and all three ladies exclaimed over one another’s dresses. Philippa’s, as always, was grand, bold red and gold. Katherine looked lovely in her favorite green velvet gown, though—he tilted his head—she looked different somehow.

Brighter-cheeked, perhaps? She had a kind of glow.

Marriage agreed with his sister.

He turned back to Bromton and Darlington—and both men were wearing the exact same smirk.

“Well, I’ll be,” Darlington murmured.

“I, for one, am not surprised,” Bromton replied.

“Smitten?” Darlington glanced askance.

“Absolutely hot-cockled.” Bromton nodded.

“Clever,” Markham replied.

The blind-folded child’s game where one suffered blows and then had to guess who hit them had been a favorite of his sisters.

Markham had been smitten, but he didn’t need to guess who had struck the blow.

Hot-cockled, indeed.

He snorted dismissively. “As if you weren’t both Jerry-sneaked.”

“Hear that, Darlington? He thinks we’re under our wives’ thumbs.”

“Might have taken insult,” Darlington answered, “but for the poor sod’s hot-cockling.”

“Well,” Bromton’s gaze settled fondly on his wife, “you won’t hear me complaining.”

Markham hummed low in his throat.

He turned away in order to assist Clarissa as she donned a white velvet cape. Thin muslin, silk, kid leather, and velvet…for all the tactile pleasures Clarissa’s ensemble offered, what he wanted most to touch was her skin—no matter how little was on display for his starving gaze.

They settled into the coach ride, blessedly on opposite sides. And, when they arrived at the benefit, Markham helped Clarissa down from the coach.

She placed her hand against his arm; his heart surged as if he’d been given a high honor. Even Julia—who attended with the Duke of Shepthorpe and his party—including the duchess, Farring, and the various, unmarried Maxwell-Hughes sisters—could not dampen his mood with her smirks and sly smiles.

He was attending one of the Season’s most sought-after events, and the most beautiful woman present was on his arm. This may not have been what he’d intended when he’d thought about enjoying this Season, but this elation was something he could savor.

His problems, however, resumed as he took the seat by Clarissa’s side for the performance. He tried to maintain that sense of honor and elevation, but her heady scent and her devastating closeness conspired against his best intentions. And suddenly he was entertaining visions of Clarissa wearing her sheer overdress with nothing beneath…her nipples visibly red and peaked, her narrow waist curving beneath the folds, and a beckoning tease of shadow between her legs…

Markham crossed his legs and kept them tightly folded until the music ended.

For the repast, the ladies gathered in one room, gentlemen in another.

Thank the heavens and St. George.

Cooler now, Markham joined Bromton by the window.

“You know, Markham,” Bromton took a sip of his port, “it’s a good thing Rayne hasn’t yet returned. If he were here, he’d strangle you in an instant.”

“I’m well aware,” Markham replied.

“Are you?” Bromton asked. “I’m not referring to your courtship.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“You’ve been salivating over Lady Clarissa.” He sipped again. “Even I’ve heard a few comments. And you know I detest gossip.”

Markham winced. Had his desire for Clarissa been that obvious? “I should leave?”

“Now?” Bromton asked. “When everyone is breathlessly waiting for you to ask Clarissa to dance? I think not.”

Markham swallowed. What had happened to respectable, well-ordered, and controlled?

Bromton twirled his glass between his fingers. “Do you know what people said about Lady Clarissa when Rayne left?”

He preferred not to think about that time. Between he and Bromton, they’d practically driven Rayne away, and Markham hadn’t spared a thought for Clarissa. He’d remained at his estate with Julia until he was certain Julia had recovered enough to at least play the part of a demure young lady.

“What was said about her?”

Bromton sent him a significant look. “Pitiful Lady Clarissa has been abandoned again.”

Damnation. “You had as much to do with Rayne’s departure as I did.”

“I’m very aware,” Bromton replied. “And Clarissa has been more than gracious, considering how I failed to fulfill her expectations.” He sighed heavily. “But I must remind you—as a friend to you both—that the purpose of this ruse was to keep Lady Clarissa from further ridicule and gossip.” Bromton scanned the crowd. “If you do not intend to follow through with a real betrothal, you might not want your sentiments on clear display. Your aim is to inspire speculation, not certainty.”

“Right.” Easy for Bromton to say—he wasn’t prone to blushing. “Understood.”

“Shall we go find Farring?”

“You go,” Markham said. “I believe I’ll take a bit of air.”

Bromton nodded. “Good thought.”

Markham traveled the length of the corridor until he located a door leading out to the rear courtyard. Outside, another light rain misted the air.

Of course.

Markham only wished he could be angry at Bromton. But, though occasionally imperious, Bromton never offered unsolicited advice…not unless the situation was dire.

Which meant he’d broken his rules. Again.

Markham took off his gloves, shoved them in his pocket, and rubbed his face until he could no longer feel the mist.

Part of the reason Clarissa had agreed to attend had been to lend credence to their courtship. Accomplished, if badly done.

But what was he to do next?

Pitiful Lady Clarissa, abandoned again.

Pitiful was not a word he’d use to describe Clarissa.

He could think of any number of more accurate descriptions. Beautiful, for instance. Outspoken—at least with him. Alluring.

Definitely alluring.

So alluring, he was willing to abandon, not her, but every reservation he’d had against marrying this season.

But should he?

Especially when a simple glance beneath her lashes drove him mad?

“There’s shelter over here,” a familiar voice said, “if you wish to come out of the rain.”

Slowly, he turned. “Mrs. Sartin. I beg your pardon for intruding.”

“There’s no need for apologies, Markham,” she smiled. “Come sit with me for a spell.”

He glanced at the bench, then up to the lighted windows, and then back to the bench.

“I won’t bite you, I promise.” She chuckled, low. “Or, I should say, I don’t intend to bite you. Not anymore.”

He sent her a wary glance.

“Really, darling. I can see where Hearts lies. Don’t you think I, too, have my pride?”

He joined her on the bench, glanced askance at her smirk, and then straightened his legs. He closed his eyes, threw back his head, and groaned.

“That bad?” she asked.

He placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “I haven’t thanked you for the tickets, have I?”

“You paid well enough for them,” she replied.

“I thought a generous donation prudent, considering the set down you delivered to Moultonbury.”

“Well”—she made a thoughtful sound—“I hope I imparted a lasting lesson.”

“To me?”

“To Moultonbury—but more so to my heir. I don’t like Moultonbury’s influence. He revels in his birthright power without any understanding of the nature of influence.”

He frowned. Mrs. Sartin had a novel way of thinking. “And how would you describe the nature of influence?”

“Power—as you well know—runs much like a clock. There are obvious gears, like titles, and then, there are the unseen coils and levers. The outer workings would fail without those hidden gears.”

“Hidden…like widows whose charities gain the sponsorship of the Royal Family?”

“The tickets are the icing.” She favored him with a widened smile. “I planned and promoted the evening as the Season’s most enviable crush. In return, I have the satisfaction of knowing the proceeds will better the lives of hundreds.”

“Well, thank you. Truly.”

“Oh, fond of you as I am, I didn’t do it for you. I did it for Lady Clarissa.”

He frowned. “Lady Clarissa?”

“Jeremy had just told me about the bet.” She eyed Markham speculatively. “By my calculations, the evening you made your gallant intercession, we’d only just parted.”

He swallowed. “True.”

“I’d unintentionally insulted you and left you in a pique. A deep enough pique to lead you to do something rash.”

“You wound me, Madam.”

“But am I wrong? I think not. And, for the record, I came to a few private revelations that night myself.” She pursed her lips. “Tell me, do you have a tendre for the lady?”

He glanced askance. “Lady Clarissa and I have been connected through friends for some time, but your assumption is correct—I lied that night. We hadn’t been secretly courting, however…” However?

When had the however happened?

“Yes, however.” Mrs. Sartin sighed. “I thought as much.”

“What do you mean?” He frowned. “And what was all that talk about rain?”

“The way she looked at you…” She shrugged. “Let us just say the lady was melting faster than your ice. Perhaps I was encouraging Lady Clarissa to pursue her desires.”

“Mrs. Sartin!”

She sighed. “I was sorry to lose you, but I would be a complete curmudgeon if I did not wish you happiness with a young lady who clearly admires—and desires you.”

“But she does not—”

“Markham, please. Modesty is not your strong point. Only remember—innocence awakened requires tending.” She stood. “Be good to her, darling.” She kissed his forehead. “And this time, I will not say au revoir. I will say goodbye.”

Markham watched Mrs. Sartin saunter back into the grand estate.

It wasn’t every day a man was encouraged to court a lady by both his ex-lover and the lady’s former betrothed.

But should he change course and court Clarissa in truth?

And, if he decided to try, would Clarissa welcome such a courtship?

Never mind a kiss for courage.

He was beginning to fear his deepest desires were bound to Clarissa.

Something sparkled in her gaze. Something deep and mysterious and unnerving, something that contradictorily promised both adventure and a sense of home. He wanted more than anything to unlock that unknown.

But, if he wanted to succeed in making his fake courtship real, he was going to have to summon more than courage.

He was going to have to prove he was worthy.

…

Clarissa gazed across the conservatory, now cleared of seats and ready for dancing. Every covert glance sent her way was a small, stinging insect. And every time a glance was followed by a raised fan and then a whisper she felt as if she’d walked through a spider web—sticky wisps of derision clung to every inch of exposed skin.

Never had she been more grateful to have Katherine and Philippa—her true friends—by her side. She even welcomed Julia’s impish presence.

She should have been used to such scrutiny. She’d been an object of curiosity ever since she’d arrived in London to make her curtsey. Then, everyone had wanted to catch a glimpse of the rumored future Marchioness of Bromton. After Bromton failed to offer for her and Rayne had abruptly departed, she’d then become the object of universal pity. However, she’d never been the object of envy.

How else could she describe the glances cast her way—part longing, part disdain?

Apparently, being the first young lady to be favored by Hearts turned heads—both young and old, male and female. The experience left her confounded. And somewhat dizzy. Although the latter could be attributed solely to Markham.

From the time she’d descended the stairs, Markham’s gaze had exuded all the subtle heat of a glowing iron. If her expression had been anywhere near as ardent when she’d watched Markham eat his ice, she now understood why Markham had looked away. Because absorbing the focus of Markham’s fully engaged attention roused that now-familiar, inner demand—I want.

But what exactly did she want?

A real courtship? Certainly not.

Another kiss? …Well, yes, to be honest.

Several kisses? Perhaps.

Reckless abandon?

Well, now that she thought about it, she wouldn’t mind the chance to at least rip open his ridiculous collar. He could barely turn his head. And if he couldn’t turn his head how was he supposed to kiss her with all that pent-up passion?

She whipped open her fan and fluttered her wrist.

“Hot?” Katherine asked.

“Very,” Clarissa answered.

“That’s odd,” Philippa commented. “I’ve been rather chilly this evening.”

“Perhaps,” Katherine said, “we should stand between the window and the fireplace.”

“No,” Julia answered quickly. “I mean, what if you get a chill?”

Clarissa ceased fanning and cast her gaze more carefully about the conservatory.

She’d assumed Markham was with Philippa’s and Katherine’s husbands. But Bromton and Darlington, along with Lord Farring, were at the far end of the room, conversing with Prince Edward.

Where was Markham?

And where—her heart crept into her throat—was Mrs. Sartin?

During the odd exchange she’d had with the widow, she’d been shocked by the message. Clearly, Mrs. Sartin had been encouraging her to enjoy her time with Markham. It had all been so utterly polished. So courtly. So urbane.

And unsettling in the extreme.

She’d been angry for Markham…he was a man, not a toy to be passed about. And she had no intention of becoming his lover.

On the other hand…

She imagined she’d enjoy the experience. What would it be like to be the kind of woman Markham would consider taking as a lover?

She wished she could imagine what would have happened next had their last kiss been anywhere else but the middle of Hampton Court Maze, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t experience…all she had was this terrible want.

She searched through the crowd again—no Markham, no Mrs. Sartin.

Markham wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

But, then again, why not?

Clarissa hadn’t any real claim on his heart. She didn’t even want to claim his heart.

Did she?

She caught a flash of auburn—and a high, starched collar of crisp white—out of the corner of her eye. Pritchett. She exhaled. Markham was talking to Pritchett.

He raised his brows and shook his head to one side, as if he’d said something characteristically self-deprecating. Then, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and he curled his lips into a smile.

She’d spent more time contemplating his mouth in the last few days than the whole of the time they’d been acquainted, and she rather liked what she’d seen. In fact, of all the gentlemen present, he was the one she found the most affecting. And, vexingly, she didn’t see her fascination with him ending any time soon.

But even if she were to change her mind about marriage, would it be wise to marry a man whose mouth could make her forget everything else?

He glanced sideways, caught her eye, and winked—in full view.

She looked to her left and then to her right, but no one seemed to notice. Her shoulders relaxed, and she returned his smile. Suddenly, he was making his way across the room. And although it had seemed as if no one had been paying them any mind, the whispers increased threefold.

Those whispers, like broom bristles, swept them closer together.

“May I have this dance?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied. “I’d be delighted.”

And, to her shock, she was sincerely delighted.

They joined the line, and the music began. He bowed; she pliéd. And then, they began the enchaînements.

She’d danced the dance any number of times—the Allemande was so old her grandparents had likely learned a version—but she’d never danced the dance with anyone so equally paired in height.

“For someone who rarely dances,” she commented, “you have excellent form.”

“Why, Lady Clarissa.” He turned. “Are you paying me a compliment? Without an insult attached?”

“So you make a pretty turn.” She raised her face—as was proper—but glanced through her lashes. “Many men do. Don’t be too pleased.”

“Well, one compliment deserves another, don’t you agree?” He brought her hand behind his waist. “You point a pretty toe.”

“Careful,” she said as they turned back to back, “lest my pretty toe end up somewhere it should not.”

When she turned to face him again, he was grinning, fully dimpled.

Gracious me, those dimples. When had they ceased to be annoying and become infectious? Like the plague.

They joined hands—one in front and one behind, for a doublehanded turn.

“Stop grinning,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because when you smile, I want to return your smile.”

“Smile, if you wish to smile.”

“Everyone is watching,” she replied under her breath.

“Are they?” he asked.

She nodded.

He swallowed. “I am afraid I can see only you.”

Her heart beat faster than the music. “And what do you see?”

“I see a beautiful woman, whom I am lucky to have as my friend.”

Ah. She melted. His friend.

She stopped trying to check her impulse; she smiled. Not just any smile, either, but one that curled up out of the mud like a spring fern—unwinding, spreading through her being until gloriously unfurled.

“My goodness, Lady Clarissa,” Markham replied. “You have dimples of your own.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, you absolutely do.”

She scowled.

“One hundred and sixty-three.” His voice softened. “Oddly enough, I’ve rather missed that look.”

The song came to an end. He bowed. She curtsied.

He behaved with absolute discretion as he returned her to her friends, though his hand lingered in hers longer than necessary. And he winked before leading Julia off to dance.

Did she have dimples? Did she really?

Impossible.

She was more than halfway through her twenties. If she had dimples, someone ought to have noticed before. She ought to have noticed.

She excused herself and sought out the ladies’ retiring room. In a quiet corner, she checked her reflection in one of the hand mirrors provided.

She smiled.

See?

She did not have dimples.

She set the mirror down in her lap. Ridiculous suggestion.

But—she glanced suspiciously at the down-turned mirror—what if she had rarely genuinely smiled?

She thought of Markham’s grin.

Nothing.

His wink.

No.

The way he closed his eyes in bliss when he savored a spoonful of ice.

She checked the mirror again and quickly set it down.

Goodness. Her eyes went wide. She did have dimples.

Which meant that Markham had made her genuinely smile.

What did that mean?

She pulled the curtain closed as several ladies entered.

“Such a shame,” one of the ladies said. “If I’d have known Lord Markham was such a fine dancer, I might have put a bit more effort into our time together.”

“Yes.” Another lady hummed. “I’m not sure I appreciated just how attentive he was out in the world as well as, well, you know.”

“Yes,” a third lady spoke. “And he has such a fine…form.”

The ladies laughed. Clarissa’s brows shot upward.

“Pity.” Clarissa recognized Mrs. Sartin’s voice. “But ladies, he is no longer available. It’s time for us to move on.”

“Oh,” the second spoke again. “How long can that innocent miss possibly hold his attention?”

“Hearts appreciates a woman of experience.” The third lady paused. “And you know he loves a woman who knows what she wants.”

“Certainly,” Mrs. Sartin agreed. “But he is attached now, and no matter what the lady’s experience, do not underestimate the power of romance.” A sad note sounded in her voice. “Don’t you remember what it was to be young and in love? Let us not begrudge him his happiness.”

Clarissa stared at the folds of the curtain, wanting to emerge with a glare and wishing, with equal furor, that she could disappear and unhear everything she had just heard.

With breath bated, she waited for the ladies to leave.

She disregarded the last part about love—utter nonsense. But what did the lady mean when she said Hearts appreciated women of experience—women who knew what they wanted?

Even after she returned to the ballroom, the question marinated in her mind, until fully infused with the desperate, unanswered I want.

At the end of the night, when Markham helped her down from the carriage, she gained his attention by whispering his name.

He inclined his head, so that he could hear, and waited for her to speak, brows slightly raised, eyes heedful and earnest.

Now she understood a rake’s appeal.

There was something thrilling about having a man look at you with such intensity.

“Your garden gate…” She swallowed. “Leave it open.”

Before he could argue, she swept up the stairs and into the Darlingtons’ hall.