Chapter Eleven

Markham joined the men lining the tri-sided courtyard of Tattersalls, waiting for the auctioneer to lead the next horse to the block. He had been corresponding with the breeder about this particular beast for months. An Arabian mare.

Spirited.

Haughty.

But, he’d been assured, a tamable beast who loved nothing more than speed.

He slapped his gloves against his open hand, stinging the center of his open palm.

Surely, the long-awaited purchase would be enough to correct his state.

For the past two days, he hadn’t been able to concentrate. Instead, depraved images crowded his mind. Images made real by newfound knowledge of the tantalizing features hidden beneath Clarissa’s clothes and the more astonishing inclinations hidden beneath her prim exterior.

He slapped a second time—harder.

He’d spent half his waking hours in a carnal bliss-filled haze and the other half battling an encroaching sense of dread he had no idea how to remedy.

He wouldn’t have minded the bliss-filled haze alone. He’d never been quite right for the first few days following an encounter with a new lover. Once carnal exploration began, his daydreams and night pleasures had always become about the woman and the experience.

The dread, however, was new.

Heat beneath his collar. Tightness in his chest—the dread of the condemned.

What had happened between himself and Clarissa hadn’t happened in the way of his other lovers.

Their encounter, of course, had physical pleasure aplenty—even now, the impression of her fingers lingered on his balls—but the night hadn’t been only about her ignorance, his experience, or even the consensual exchange of power.

The culmination had been fusion itself—two separate metal pieces melted and then melded together. And that little part of him—the one he constantly needed to beat down—had gone silent in the tender aftermath of her embrace.

Why?

He slapped again.

Because he’d been bloody claimed.

The answer lay at the very center of the sharp-toothed, long clawed badger of fear, ready to pounce at any moment.

He’d suspected his rules and his limits—the partitions he’d carefully constructed to keep other people out—had been aimed at preventing such an experience, as if deep inside, he’d been craving it all along.

But the idea was as absurd as it was sweat-inducing.

Clarissa hadn’t claimed him. She did not even want anything beyond her quest for knowledge. That much, she’d made clear— Did I propose? Even now, he heard her question clearly, including the note of fundamental disdain.

No one knew better than he the slow, internal rot one-sided devotion caused.

Mama, will you come downstairs today?

On days she’d bothered to answer at all, she’d answered perhaps with a mild lifting of her lips.

Come and give me a kiss for courage?

You ask, but then you never come down.

Mama is sad, that is all.

Because of me?

No, dearest…now go find your sister and play.

“I say,” Farring interrupted Markham’s thoughts. He strode across the courtyard, his high, polished boots crunching against the gravel. “Aren’t they leading away the horse you’ve been waiting for all day?”

They were.

Mercy.

He clenched his teeth. The auction had started and finished, and he hadn’t even noticed. He’d practically stalked that magnificent beast. Now, he’d entirely missed his moment because of her.

He flushed.

No—not because of Clarissa. Because, after all these years, he hadn’t learned to contain his desires.

He was still a little boy wanting desperately—hopelessly—to please.

Buoyant, congratulatory shouts directed his gaze toward the winner of the auction. Moultonbury.

His flush deepened. “Damnation!”

Moultonbury looked up, smiled slowly, and then tipped his hat.

Markham turned to Farring. “Why did you let him get my horse?”

“Me?” Farring frowned. “I stepped away for but a moment—not that you’ve taken note of my presence at all the past few days. I daresay Moultonbury got his horse because he was paying attention.” Farring shoved his glasses up his nose. “Now, if I may remind you, I was compelled to take tea with Her Grace this morning with my entire gaggle of sisters present. You do not wish to irritate my final nerve.”

“Damnation,” Markham repeated. And then, more softly, “I apologize.”

Farring grunted begrudgingly. “Let’s go get a pint. You’re in no condition to engage in proper bidding, and I haven’t anyplace to stable another horse.”

Markham cast one last longing glance at the horse, now being led back to a stall. He didn’t really have the room, either. Not in London, anyway. At least now he needn’t pay to house the beast. There was that.

He could spend his money elsewhere. Like on a new shirt unstained with Clarissa’s rouge, and cravat and trousers unstained with—

He stopped his thought right there and then kicked a pebble into the street.

“Are you trying to cover us both in horseshit?” Farring asked. “What the devil has gotten into you?”

Markham glanced askance. “I’m just mad about the horse.”

“Yes.” Farring pursed his lips. “The horse. Men are frequently subsumed by their desire for horses.”

They ducked inside the low door to the closest pub to Tattersalls. Instantly, the temperature changed—brisk, early autumn cool to roasting heat.

Farring left Markham in a booth and then returned with two frothing mugs. He slid onto the bench, drank deep, and then smacked his lips.

“Good ale.”

Markham lifted his brows. “It is, rather.”

“Come on, now. Is that the best reaction you can summon? You practically had a paroxysm over losing a horse to Moultonbury.”

Markham flattened his lips.

“Chin up, pup,” Farring continued. “The reports on that horse were probably too good to be true, anyway.”

“The horse was every bit as magnificent as the breeder implied. As a matter of fact, soon as they arrived in London, the starting bid increased by 20 percent.”

“You could offer to buy the beast from Moultonbury—I daresay he’d let her go for the right amount of coin.”

“The beast, I’d like. However, I wouldn’t give Moultonbury a sixpence. Not for a horse. Not for anything.”

“Speaking of Moultonbury,”—Farring leaned back—“an on dit about him had my mother and sisters all aflutter this morning. The dowager countess is, apparently, furious with her son. She expected those tickets to the benefit—the same tickets that I believe went to you.”

“Did the countess know to blame Moultonbury?”

“Mrs. Sartin told Lady Moultonbury that his incivility was the reason she had changed her mind.”

Markham rapped the table. “Mrs. Sartin had better take care.” The last thing he needed was more fuel to this fire.

“Well, Mrs. Sartin knows just what to say to soothe Queen Charlotte, so I’d say she’s quite safe. And, she has my mother’s support. Lady Moultonbury must feel the woman’s influence, too. She threatened to cut her son out of her will if he did not change his ways and show more respect for his elders.”

Markham turned down his lips. “Can she do that?”

“Lady Moultonbury’s marriage refilled the Moultonbury coffers, and her marriage contracts were ironclad. The title may belong to her son, but the money is hers.”

“Apparently not all the money. That horse did not come cheap,” Markham said. “You learned all of this over tea?”

“I wouldn’t know half what I know if it weren’t for the women in my family.” Farring glanced over his glasses. “You know, you should listen to your sisters more often. I daresay Katherine learned more about Lord Bromton in the week after they’d met than I’ve learned after near twenty years.”

Markham could hardly argue. He’d shown Clarissa a part of himself he had never intended to reveal.

Hell, he hadn’t even known it was there before the other night.

Farring left his glasses on the tip of his nose. “Do you know what other topic had the gaggle aflutter?”

“No.” But the churn in his stomach gave him a hint.

“Her Grace is now touting the expectant love match of the Season, and she’s giving the credit all to Mrs. Sartin. Who is this lucky couple?” Farring leaned forward. “I’ll give you one guess.”

Markham took a gulp-deep mouthful of now-tepid ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then rested his head on the back of the booth, gazing upward.

Someone had hung a horseshoe on a nail in the ceiling—upside down.

As if he needed more bad luck.

Farring’s laugh started as a snort and ended in a hearty chuckle.

“Stop it, would you?” Markham spoke under his breath. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Hear what?” Farring wiped his eyes.

“Whatever it is you are thinking.”

“I’m not thinking, I’m observing. The latter is infinitely more effective. There is nothing fake about this courtship, is there? You are courting Lady Clarissa on her own merits.”

Markham sat straight, though he kept his voice at a whisper. “You know that’s impossible.”

“Please,” Farring scoffed. “Impossible, why? Because of Rayne? I daresay he’s calmed down after eighteen months off, doing,”—he waved his hand—“whatever it is Rayne’s been doing. And don’t even try to argue concern for Julia. Julia barely mentions Rayne anymore.”

“Yes, but if Clarissa and I—” Markham caught himself. “If Lady Clarissa and I married, Rayne and Julia would become family. And avoiding my brother-in-law would be a far cry from dismissing an acquaintance.”

“It’s not as if they’d be blood. They’ll be forced to meet anyway. The ton is not so large—and if one wishes to avoid someone, that party is certain to accept the same invitations with logic-defying frequency. Besides, Julia already loves Clarissa—as does Katherine. The discomfort would lie with Rayne, not with your sisters.”

All true. Markham ran his finger beneath his collar. “It’s been less than a week. I could not have possibly gone from barely thinking about Lady Clarissa—”

Farring snorted again.

“What?”

“You’ve always been intrigued by Lady Clarissa.”

He had.

Suddenly, he was back in the Duke of Shepthorpe’s library, straining to catch a glimpse of the young lady who had just been announced—the lady rumored to become the future Marchioness of Bromton.

Clarissa had been dressed not in white, but in pale blue. And even from a distance her eyes had snagged his attention, casting all else into a dreamlike blur. He’d turned away immediately. Why? Because she’d been promised to another man. Another man who had just become a friend.

She wasn’t promised any longer. But still— “Clarissa made it quite clear she does not wish to wed.”

“Well, that is a problem.” Farring’s fingers rat-a-tatted against his mug. “What exactly are her objections?”

“I assume—”

“You assume,” Farring interrupted. “Ah pup, now I’m truly disappointed. You mean you haven’t expressly asked?”

“No…not expressly.”

Farring glanced heavenward. “Markham, the lady spent the whole of her childhood preparing for a role she will never fill…never wished to fill, in fact.”

A kindred sort of sympathy passed through Markham’s senses. Anyone would be reluctant to make a commitment under those conditions.

“If you want her,”—Farring leveled his gaze—“and I believe you do, then give her something different to imagine.”

“Like what?”

Farring shrugged. “Like a role molded for her, not a role that forces her to conform.”

Could that be true?

Could the role be what she despised?

Although how could he show her something different when he hadn’t any idea if happiness within a marriage could last?

“What makes you so wise?” he asked.

“Oh. I’m not wise at all. I just have sisters. Lord, do I have sisters. When it comes to matters of the heart, I simply imagine what answer one of them would give.”

“So.” Markham paused. “For argument’s sake…”

“Yes, of course, for argument.”

“If I wanted to woo the lady, what would you suggest I do?”

Farring thought for a moment. “She must understand you wouldn’t be distant—like Rayne. Or treat her as a curiosity, like Bromton.”

“But how—”

“You’re a daft pup sometimes.” Farring shook his head. “Show her Southford, of course. The estate practically stewarded by your sister over the years, the same sister whom, even now, you rely on for advice.”

Southford…

Farring was right.

Katherine had as much a hand in shaping Southford’s current success as he—more of one, in many ways. He’d merely secured funding. Katherine had come up with the plans.

“Markham! Is that you?”

Markham turned to see Pritchett and Sir Dalton—who’d both been present that fateful night at Sharpe’s—sauntering over to their table.

“How’s the…courtship going?” Dalton smirked. “Are you ready to turn the lady over to a man who can handle her?”

Offense darkened Markham’s cheeks. Farring stepped on Markham’s foot—a warning—Dalton wasn’t worth his wrath.

“How are your debts, Dalton?” Farring asked cheerfully.

Dalton bristled.

“Go on, would you?” Farring continued. “Run back to Moultonbury. He holds your leading strings rather tight, I hear.”

Dalton lifted his quizzing glass in a terrible approximation of Brummell. “I say!”

Farring threw his elbow over the back of the booth and turned. “Has it ever occurred to you that there are reasons a man of Lord Moultonbury’s age would choose to champion fellows as young as yourselves? Could it be, perhaps, that men of his age see him for what he really is?”

Dalton narrowed his gaze and then turned. Pritchett’s gaze lingered on Farring, shifted to Markham, then moved back to Farring.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said, before walking away.

“Now, you’ve done it.” Markham said. “Dalton’s going to go straight back to Moultonbury.”

“Let him.” Farring looked back from the slammed door. “The one benefit of being the son of a duke is that you don’t have to give a rat’s ass what men like Moultonbury think.”

“I don’t give a damn what Moultonbury thinks.”

“I know.” Farring pushed up his glasses. “And neither does Lady Clarissa.” He grinned. “And I’m quite certain that’s not the only thing you two have in common.”

…

Inside Philippa’s sitting room, Clarissa avoided looking down at the infamous black gate. The gate that had remained firmly closed and locked for the past two days. Instead, she concentrated on thrusting her needle in and out of the linen she’d stretched across the frame.

If she just kept jabbing—ahem—embroidering…eventually, she’d have a lovely handkerchief decorated with scores of tiny green—she jabbed her finger—well, green and red leaves.

She set aside the fabric and sucked on her finger.

She’d made herself bleed. But even an open wound did not feel as painful as Markham’s castigating silence.

She shifted in her seat and glanced out the window.

She had been wounded, for goodness sake. She should be permitted one indulgence…one tiny peek.

Still no sign of Markham.

Before the other night she’d rarely noticed Markham’s garden. In fact, she hadn’t noticed any number of things before.

She had never noticed how long the hours lasted between rising and early afternoon—hours usually reserved for visits. Those hours were as painfully slow as the changing of the guard, especially—she scowled down at the gate—when no one called.

How could she have allowed Markham to turn her into this—this…

Bundle of frustrated want.

Oh, she’d made a few interesting discoveries in the intervening days…like how she could cover herself in her sheets, reach down between her legs and make those stars appear all on her own. Only it wasn’t quite the same, was it?

Useful, but not the same.

She huffed.

Then again, all she’d asked for was knowledge. In fact, she’d specifically rejected anything more.

But, still, he hadn’t paid a call.

Shouldn’t he have paid a call?

No one should ever commit to a fake courtship if they did not intend to court.

Fakely.

She growled under her breath. Had she really devolved into a blubbering mess of made-up words? Perhaps Markham hadn’t called because he was protecting her reputation.

Or maybe she’d frightened him away.

Answer me with words.

She withdrew her finger from her mouth.

Of course, once daylight had burned away the last of Markham’s sensual haze, all the implications of their encounter would come home to rest. Surely, he would have realized he didn’t want to be ordered about.

Not that she had any desire to do so in the general sense.

The imbalance had been so great—something had to place them on more equal footing.

She’d treated him sternly, yes. But not as if he were without wit. More as if he were a devoted subject…a knight errant. A warrior knight errant who voluntarily pledged his allegiance and fully trusted in her reciprocal care.

Her skirts swished around her as she stood. She straightened her stockings and then adjusted her stays.

Her knight had failed.

If he failed, he no longer deserved her care. The pleasure may have been impassioned, her satisfaction thorough, but if this feeling was the result, then she never wished to have the experience again.

She hated this feeling.

This restless feeling that threatened to ball up so large, she’d expire. Madness. No, worse. Vulnerability.

This is why she had given up the idea of marriage in the first place. Expectations were a yawning crevasse. A grave dug specifically for stupid hopes.

She folded her arms.

Had she forgotten how she’d spent her youth?

In the shadows, endlessly waiting for a groom who never intended to claim his bride. She would never, ever place her well-being into another’s keeping again. Men had the power to make a woman legally disappear with a simple I do.

And she refused to accept responsibility for anyone else.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Katherine, Lady Bromton,” Lady Darlington’s butler announced.

“Oh! Clarissa!” Katherine exclaimed. “I’m so glad you are not out.” She stopped abruptly. “Why are you scowling?”

“Embroidery mishap.” She held up her finger.

“I can’t see a wound.”

“Trust me. It was bleeding a moment ago.” Clarissa’s frown deepened. “Wait. Why are you all breathless and sparkling? Have you told Bromton about the baby?”

“Not yet. I want to be absolutely sure.”

“Then what has you so excited?”

“Well.” She grinned. “Percy’s come up with such a marvelous idea.”

Clarissa’s heart leaped up. She shoved it back down.

“I thought you called Markham Percy when you are mad.”

Katherine shrugged. “Sometimes it slips out when I’m pleased, too. Percy’s extended an invitation for us all to go to Southford, and Bromton has agreed! He’s to come with us. And Julia.”

Markham was going away? Had she scared him that badly? Clarissa lifted a brow. “Should you really be traveling in your condition?”

“I’m not that delicate. Besides, we have an excellently sprung coach, and it’s fall, so the temperature is sure to be pleasant.”

“It’s fall,” Clarissa repeated, “so the roads are sure to be wet and ruddy.”

“Claris-sa, I would like to see Southford before travel becomes difficult. I haven’t been back since my wedding. Markham’s finished many of the projects I began, and I’d just like to see—”

Clarissa sighed. “Of course you should go. Now I am being selfish.”

“Why?” Katherine frowned. “Well, honestly, you didn’t think we’d leave you behind? You are going to come with us, silly goose.”

“Come with you?” Clarissa swallowed. “To Markham’s estate?”

“Why are you saying it that way? It was my home, too. Wouldn’t you like to come? I could show you my mother’s folly—you’ve seen the painting Bromton ordered for my room. It’s an excellent painting, of course, but it’s not the real thing, is it? There’s plenty to do, I assure you. Southford has an excellent library, a billiards room, lovely formal gardens, a pond, lots of lanes for walking…”

Clarissa squinted. “Are you sure this was Markham’s idea?”

“Yes! He can come up with a good idea from time to time. So, will you agree to come?”

She shouldn’t.

She’d just vowed to contain her heart.

She glanced longingly toward the glossy black gate. Her longing transformed into persuasion. “Of course, I’ll go with you to Southford.”

Katherine squealed.

“Only because I couldn’t bear to disappoint you.”

“Of course.” Katherine enveloped her in an embrace. “I’m sure that’s the only reason.”