Chapter Nine

Markham paced the length of his garden in the dark—a man locked in an internal struggle. Your garden gate. Leave it open. A simple request or the answer to the question, “How to destroy a man in six words?”

Though—he stopped pacing in front of the gate—he shouldn’t assume she had carnal intent, should he?

Perhaps Clarissa merely sought a private place where she could land her little foot someplace it would hurt, just as she’d threatened.

Or, perhaps she wished to talk. Or, dance. Or, play a game. Like spillikins.

Or, hot cockles.

He groaned.

He was not precisely destroyed.

Not yet.

But he would be.

He hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her in the Hampton maze. Then, in his mind, he’d undressed her right in the middle of Berkeley Square. And tonight, well, there wasn’t any point in even thinking about tonight.

The glossy black door between his garden and the Darlingtons’ garden reflected the faint moonlight. The paint gleamed like the inky waters of the mythical underworld river Styx.

Apt, actually.

Because hell was exactly where Rayne would send him if he unlocked that door.

Then again, he did not need Rayne to send him to hell. Hell was a place of fear and heat and constant pain. A place of temptations deeply felt but forever denied. A place of suspension, of permanent indecision. Of remorse.

He was already there.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the gate.

“Markham?”

Her low whisper went straight to his cock. Pain, all right. Tight-balled bloody pressure. He made a fist; the key bit into his palm.

“Markham, are you there?”

The gate jostled back and forth.

“Foolish. Foolish. Foolish,” she whispered, bereft. “He doesn’t want me.”

He absolutely did.

He wanted her so badly, every muscle in his body strained in slow torment, like a rooted tree desperate for the sun.

She wasn’t foolish. Just reckless. And tempting an already raging fire.

Dead leaves rustled in the breeze. Or, had the rustle been the sound of her skirts? Walk away, my dear. Please.

He ignored his better side, squeezing his reply through a quickly closing throat. “I’m here.”

“Are you going to open the gate?” she asked.

“No.” This time, his better side won. “Opening the gate is a very bad idea.”

“Why?” she asked. “I just want to talk.”

See? All she wants to do is talk.

That inner voice sounded pleasant enough, but it had little horns and a pinchy little pitchfork. He pursed his lips.

“No.”

“You said you were my friend.”

Ah. An unexpected right hook to his stomach.

“I am your friend,” he said through his teeth. “But talking will lead to kissing.” Yes, please. “And kissing will lead to embracing.” Oh, hell, yes. “And embracing will lead to…” He shivered; the hair on his inner thighs stood on end. “Well, you know.”

Silence, for a beat. “I don’t.”

“Pardon?”

“I don’t know what comes after the embracing. I want to know. And—and I think, well maybe it’s the not knowing that is driving me mad.”

Possible, though he doubted it. Because he knew what came next. And he was going mad, too. Yet her uncertainty raised a white flag. In a moment, he’d admit total and complete defeat. And open a very Stygian door.

Gently, he thudded his forehead against the gate.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Punishing myself.”

“Why?”

He gritted his teeth. “For all of this.”

“Don’t punish yourself,” she said. “Just open the gate. I promise you won’t regret letting me in.”

He would. He absolutely would. However, he could no longer walk away. If he ever could have walked away in the first place. He pushed the key into the lock and turned. The door popped. Just a sliver.

Clarissa peeked around the edge.

She’d abandoned the white velvet cape for a hooded cloak of dark wool. Which had been smart, but, oh—that velvet.

And, double oh, that sheer mull and the shimmering gold beneath.

“Well.” He sighed. “You had better come in.”

She moved, swift and silent, as if sneaking into gentlemen’s gardens was something commonplace. Which couldn’t be true for her if she did not know what came after embracing.

Again, he did know. And he’d invited her into his lair anyway, like some demon creature, knowing she would not return to Lady Darlington’s an innocent.

The question was—how much would she learn?

Were there gradations of ruination?

Did one start pure and wide-eyed and fall instantly into complete depravation?

And why, exactly, were perfectly natural urges considered depraved?

Shut it, pinchy little pitchfork.

He ran his hand through his hair, because if he didn’t, he would have been tempted to do something else with that hand. For instance, draw Clarissa into an intimate embrace. And not just because she was close and delightfully woman-scented, but because something told him bringing her inside the circle of his arms was the only thing that would make everything solid again.

“You wanted to talk?” he asked.

She nodded. “I wanted to ask a question.”

“Yes?”

One gloved hand appeared from beneath her cloak. She rested it on his arm and looked up. “What is ‘a woman of experience’?”

Inwardly, he groaned again. “I think you can imagine the answer.”

She considered. “Yes, you’re right. I can imagine an answer but can’t imagine your answer.”

“My answer,” he repeated. She was more dangerous than he’d thought. And he’d already known she’d be lethal. “Why do you want to know my answer?”

“Don’t you know your answer?”

He didn’t.

He just knew his answer would not conform. Just like he didn’t conform.

He did not properly fit any space he’d been expected to occupy. He never had. A boy at the foot of his bed, watching his mother suffocate and not understanding why no one else could see.

“Please, Markham.”

“I don’t want to give a flippant reply.”

He concentrated on the warmth beneath her tiny hand. How would he define a woman of experience?

A woman with extensive carnal knowledge?

What was extensive, then? Multiple men? A single man for multiple years?

Confound Clarissa—he was completely muddled.

She waited, patient.

She’d never been one to rush silence with unnecessary words. He returned to parsing. He’d promised honesty, after all.

What did he know? He knew the simple procreative act didn’t make a woman—or a man, for that matter—experienced. Although, he supposed penetration—even if involuntary—had been enough to brand many women with that word…and worse.

Which was why he rejected that definition.

Such unyieldingly harsh descriptions implied all carnal acts were lewd.

And they weren’t.

Some could be downright transportive—a breath amid the busyness of life, a brief space where all that mattered was fusion.

“A woman of experience,” he said slowly, “is a woman who has been awakened to pleasure. Who knows and understands her own desires.”

There. Defined. Relief.

She stepped closer.

Short-lived relief.

Her cloak entwined with his. “Is a man of experience a person who has been, as you say, awakened to pleasure?”

“Pleasure, yes,” he said hoarsely. “But not just taking…giving, too.” Taking pleasure could be solely self-indulgent.

“Are you as…” She paused. “Talented as they say at giving pleasure?”

Let me show you. He swallowed. “I try.”

“False humility?”

No. And not a false courtship, either.

“I’m not being humble. Not every man can please every woman. Nor vice versa, no matter what anyone says or believes. There has to be a certain…spark.”

“Like between you and Mrs. Sartin?”

“Yes.” There was no point in denying what Clarissa already knew. “But that spark has burned its course.”

“Do you and I have a spark?”

“Yes.” Hell, yes.

She worked her hand beneath his coat, then his waistcoat, and then rested it against his heart. He wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she pulled it entirely out from beneath his ribs. Already, it beat between them, almost disembodied.

“I think I understand,” she said.

“You do?”

She nodded. “Something odd happens when we touch.”

“Odd?”

“I want. I’m not even sure what, but I want.” She turned her face to the side and tucked her head beneath his chin. “Can you give me what I want?”

Heaven help him. “No.”

“You can’t?”

Only a man who would spend all day admiring his own cock would think he could. “There isn’t a simple answer to your want—nor anyone else’s.”

“What can you answer, then?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? How could he answer her I want?

Only one way—a joining, a recognition of their sameness, an acknowledgment of the very differences that had brought them into the night.

“I want, too.”

Not exactly an answer, but the best he could give.

She took his hand. In the center of his palm she drew a heart. That heart was a lock—one perfect hook meeting its mirror.

“Take me inside, Markham.”

Thud, thud, thud sounded in his ears, as if wrestling to be released from the slipknot she’d drawn. Heart’s heartbeat, loud enough to drown away all his argument.

Loud enough to force the choice that would alter both their lives’ course.

“Yes,” he answered. “Come inside.”

No invitation to bed had ever left him more ashamed.

Nor more excited.

…

Markham moved through the darkness with his usual ease, though now he seemed like a creature born to the night. Or—Clarissa considered—like a man with a great deal of experience ushering lovers inside from his garden into his home.

Was that why she’d wanted to mark him as her own?

To burn a heart into his hand?

But envy had no place in this assignation. Nor did possession. She hadn’t come here to make him hers, even if she had that power.

She had come here to learn.

The equation was simple. Markham had experience. She did not. With Markham’s help, she intended to remedy her ignorance. The only question left was how far would Markham go? Would she return tonight understanding pleasure? Would she return no longer a maiden?

She hated how much information she lacked—information jealously guarded by men, many of whom never bothered to perceive nor understand the power they held. She intended to seize that information. To embrace understanding and the power it conveyed.

Markham located the tinderbox somewhere at the far end of what she assumed was the scullery. He lit a single candle. The light proffered was dim. Just enough to make out the faint outline of furniture and cast short shadows across Markham’s serious features.

Ah, poor man.

She hadn’t expected him to look so tortured. Surely, he hadn’t lost sleep over his other lovers’ loss of virtue—or, as she preferred to think of it—initiation into experience.

But his reticence was gratifying, in a way. She touched his cheek. Insulting to his other lovers, but charmingly chivalrous.

She had no more—or less—value than any woman he’d bedded before, only the intention to lift herself up onto a plateau so she could better see.

“The stairs are steep,” he whispered. “They creak, but don’t worry. No one will come.”

Well, that sounded ominous. “Why?”

“Because,”—he rapped on the side of the stairs—“I warn them not to.”

She stifled a laugh. Gallant, indeed.

He scowled.

“I apologize.” She attempted to appear contrite.

He sent her a glance that said he wasn’t buying her contrition and then motioned for her to go first. They climbed the stairs, a unified train, while he held the candle high. His heat, his very presence, left every sense tingling. She hadn’t even known she could tingle in her back.

Information.

Extraordinary information.

Marvelous information.

What other unexplored parts could produce the same feelings?

He opened a door from the stairwell, and they entered a dark chamber.

“Keep going,” he whispered against her ear.

A waterfall of tingles spilled down her spine.

Ah, yes. That.

That was the kind of experience she was seeking. Later, she’d ask him to whisper something else against her ear. Preferably something more inspiring than keep going.

Although—she lifted her brows—keep going had potential, depending on what one was encouraging.

They moved silently through an apparently empty chamber. Dressing room? Countess’s bedchamber? She couldn’t see anything but the candle. Right now, all she could do was trust.

So she did.

Markham had promised not to hurt her. She believed him.

She could unveil all her ignorance as well as all her greedy thirst; Markham wouldn’t turn away or laugh. She could pour out the contents of her heart; he would carefully sift. He was that way. Like a pond whose surface ripples did not reveal the deep stillness within.

No, Markham would not hurt her.

She only hoped she would not hurt him.

But how could she hurt Markham? He was the one with experience. He was the one who knew what was about to happen. She hadn’t his power.

Not yet.

He opened a second door. The scent of bergamot grew strong as they entered. He closed the door behind them. The lock squealed as he pushed it into place. The room was wood paneled. Tables, chairs, and dressers were scattered about, but her eyes fixed on the large, canopied bed anchoring its center.

“Is this your bedchamber?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered without elaboration.

He set the candle down on a table and moved to close his curtains. He removed his cloak and then lit his wall sconces one by one.

She’d rather he didn’t. She preferred shadow.

In shadow, she didn’t have to remember other women had shared his bed. In shadow, she could forget the parting that eventually must come. Somewhere beyond Markham’s crimson curtains and dark wood paneling was a world of consequences. For now, Clarissa did not care to consider consequences.

Well, not all of them.

She wanted one consequence quite badly—the consequence of the heat in Markham’s gaze—the answer to the burning beneath her skin.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he returned. “What do you think?”

“Very masculine.” Though not at all masculine in the cold, stark manner of her father’s home. The effect here was warm. Heavy. Solid. Real. “I like it.”

He smiled an endearingly lopsided smile. “Thank you.”

“The smell.” She inhaled. “Is it bergamot?”

He indicated a bottle on the table. “Mostly. James Floris of Jermyn Street created the scent for me.”

She picked up the bottle. The liquid was thick, and it clung to the glass as she swirled—not cologne, but oil. She uncorked the bottle and sniffed—that was the scent, all right.

“Impressive.” She set down the oil. “But it is not the cologne that makes me heady, is it? It’s you.”

He searched her eyes. “Do I leave you heady?”

She smiled. “Of course you do. You know your effect. You are fully aware of how you move. Your confidence, your ease…it’s why they call you Hearts, isn’t it?”

He blushed. “We shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

His reticence was going to be a problem. “My dear Markham, I’ve developed this odd notion that only I can rule my heart and mind.”

He did not appear convinced. “If everyone left instinct unchecked, there would be chaos.”

“Chaos? What chaos could result from my presence in your bed?”

He glanced doubtfully at his mattress. “I might get you with child.”

Ah. A child. She sucked in her bottom lip. She hadn’t considered pregnancy.

“Stop that,” he said.

“Stop what?”

His eyes were fixed to her mouth. Intentionally, she bit her lip again. He sighed, gruff and frustrated.

“Clarissa, please.”

He’d said her name as if it were a complex puzzle or a fascinating play. And then, he’d begged. She rather liked hearing him beg.

An interesting sensation skittered through her senses, almost as if they were playing some sort of game and she’d won.

Power?

“Why did you want to come here?” he asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No.”

“I want to become a woman of experience.” Again, she placed her hand on his chest. His pulse beat against her fingers making all of this more real. More exciting. “What better man could I choose to lift my ignorance than Hearts?”

He hummed with uncertainty. “Rayne would kill me if I bedded you.”

Rayne? “Rayne doesn’t have to know.”

She spidered her fingers upward beneath his cravat. She loosened the knot, just as she’d been wanting to do all night long.

He made a funny, strangled sound.

She stilled. “Do you object?”

He sent her a look she could not decipher. “What is happening?”

“Seduction.” She glanced through her lashes. “I intend to bed you, not the other way around.”

His eyes turned drowsy. “I…I’ve never seen this side of you.”

“Neither have I…and I like this side of me.” She lowered her voice. “I think you do, too.”

“You said you didn’t wish to marry.”

She blinked. “Did I propose?”

“Ah…” A sound of warning more than indecision. He removed her hand from his chest. “I’m afraid your seduction contains an implied proposal.”

“Does it?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Absolutely.”

“And yet, just a few nights ago, weren’t you and Mrs. Sartin coupling like—”

“As a matter of fact,” he interrupted, “we were not. I haven’t been with Mrs. Sartin, or anyone else, since spring. But let’s leave everyone out of this but us, shall we?”

“Gladly,” she replied. “But when you say everyone, I want you to mean everyone. Society. Our friends. My brother. Your lovers.”

“Former,” he clipped.

She frowned.

“Former lovers. That much must be clear.”

So gallant. “Is that your rule? Only one lover at a time?”

A guilty flush returned to his cheeks. “One of the few rules I’ve yet to break.”

“Markham.” She caressed his face with the back of her hand. “What rules have you broken lately?”

“All but that one, I’m afraid.”

She tsked. As she did so, he refixed his gaze to her mouth.

His lips parted. His pupils went wide.

She’d seen rabbits with just the same look. Poor, frightened little creatures frozen in the worst possible position, uncertain of which way to dart. Eyes unblinking. Heartbeat rapid. Panting.

Just like Markham.

What did the French call a lustful devil? Chaud lapin. Hot rabbit.

He wanted her. He needed only good reason to forgo his rules. Good reason. Like an order, an edict, a command.

“Would you break rules for me?”

“I already have.”

His confession had been roughly whispered. Thrill spiraled up her spine.

“Tell me,” she whispered in return, “how bad you’ve been.”

He looked down. “In the Square outside Gunter’s. I undressed you. In my mind.”

“Did you?” She cocked her head. Odd, that. “Very bad indeed. And what did you do with me once I was undressed?”

“I laid you across my bed.” He glanced back up. “And I sucked your nipples until you were begging for more.”

Oh? She kept her expression neutral. Was nipple sucking something grown men did? Why?

She ran her hand over her breast. Her nipple hardened beneath her clothes. Ohh.

Markham made a whimpering sound.

She refocused on him. “Is that all you did?”

He shook his head no.

“Answer me with words.” Where in heaven’s name had that voice come from?

“No,” he said aloud.

She placed a fisted glove against her hip. “What did you do next?”

He met her gaze. Fierce. Slightly angry. Thoroughly transfixed. “I took my hard, swollen cock in my hands. I parted your thighs and rubbed the tip against your swollen maidenhead. And then,”—the side of his lip lifted—“you came apart.”

Well, she’d wanted information, hadn’t she? And that contained a great deal of information.

“Came apart?

His eyelids drooped again. “Heaven.”

I want…

Want? She could barely breathe.

“Is your cock,” she relished the hard K, “swollen now?”

“So swollen it hurts.”

“Show me.”

He gripped himself so that the thick outline of his arousal showed.

A fission of pleasure skidded over her skin. “Well.”

“Well,” he repeated, lifting a brow in challenge.

“You have been very bad.” She smiled her most wicked smile and approached him slowly—her panting, swollen, aching chaud lapin. “You require direction…strict guidance…rigorous supervision.”

She untied the tie at her throat. Her cloak dropped away.

“There are a great many ties to my dress. And the fabric is quite dear.” She held out her arms to either side, as if for a lady’s maid. “I trust you will take care.”

He did not move.

“You made me a promise, Markham,” she said, her voice gravelly and low. “A promise I expect you to fulfill.”