Chapter Nineteen

Clarissa stood to the side of the Duchess of Shepthorpe’s drawing room with Philippa, Katherine, and Katerina. The room was full of chatter, color, and light.

London may not have changed, but Clarissa had.

She’d changed more than once. She’d changed from an obedient lady into a passionate lover into—well, she wasn’t sure what she was at the moment. She only knew she was desolate—haunted by what could have been if she had just found the courage.

Over the last few weeks, Markham had behaved like a perfect gentleman…that is to say, he hadn’t attempted to contact her at all. If Katherine had not told her he was in London, she wouldn’t even have known. He’d gone out of his way to ensure they did not meet.

For all she knew, he’d already chosen his next lover.

The very idea turned her insides to Thames mud—thick, repugnant, nauseating, and filled her with jealousy caustic enough to turn everything to rot.

Even if she hadn’t any right to be jealous.

Over and over, she considered what Julia had said.

Do you know how young Percy was when he became earl? Between his youth and my father’s stupidity, no one, no one would listen to him, no matter what his title. No one would extend credit. And no one would sign a lease, even though the rector himself was a trustee.

Through the months of their acquaintance, she’d treated Markham dismissively, as if he could not possibly understand loss and restriction. But he did understand. He’d faced more difficult circumstances than she had and, even as a young, inexperienced man, had summoned enough force of will to turn things around.

And he hadn’t become bitter.

He wasn’t standing in the middle of a crowded afternoon soiree, still as a stone statue, unmoved by the surrounding gaiety.

She slipped her hand into her pocket and ran her fingers over the embroidered M on his handkerchief as if she could somehow summon the comfort of his closeness. She’d done so often enough in the past few weeks that the embroidery would soon unravel under her fingers.

How could she feel so lost when she had everything she’d thought she wanted?

Soon, Rayne would sign contracts to place adequate oversight in place at his estate, and then they’d prepare to travel.

Still, when her courses had come—the small ember of hope had gone ashen. She’d lost the one thing that would have guaranteed he would take her back. And she’d lost a future she dearly wanted. She’d wept ceaselessly, finally, fully understanding everything she’d thrown away.

And if you haven’t heard anything else, hear this—I love you.

Heaven help her, she loved him, too.

On sunny summer mornings, she wanted to walk with him through Southford’s green-boughed lanes. On rainy afternoons, she wanted to sit by the fire at his side. She wanted to pore over his plans, get heady on his cognac or Lizzy’s gin, and laugh with his gathered family. Now that the chance had past, she knew she wanted his child.

Because…devotion.

Markham was capable of rare devotion. Of giving himself over—bravely, boldly, completely. But she’d committed a transgression he could not forgive.

She’d treated that devotion with suspicion and contempt.

And he wanted her no longer.

You just wish to please me.

Not anymore, I don’t.

She’d chosen this lonely desolation willfully, wholeheartedly. And yet, she could hardly bear the pain.

“Clarissa, have you been listening?” Philippa asked.

Katherine’s softened gaze was far too sympathetic. “No, she hasn’t.”

Clarissa sighed. “I was thinking of Gunter’s ices.”

“Gunter’s,” Philippa replied dryly. “Of course. Because flavored ice is so very engrossing.”

Clarissa glanced about for something to change the subject. In the far corner, she spotted Julia and Horatia speaking with Farring and Mrs. Sartin’s nephew—she’d forgotten his name—Pringle? Pratt?

Something that began with a P…

“It’s so good to see Julia and Horatia united again,” Katherine said.

“And look who’s keeping an eye on Pritchett’s efforts.” Philippa tilted her head toward the windows. “The source of his future income—Mrs. Sartin. She looks happier than she has in quite some time, doesn’t she?”

Katerina folded her arms. “Well, word has gotten out that Clarissa’s rumored courtship with Markham was just that—a rumor. Mrs. Sartin is probably eager for the chance to lure him back.”

Clarissa frowned.

She rather liked the widow. Mrs. Sartin had come to her aid. And she doubted Markham would reunite with a former lover. He did not dwell in the past—he looked to the future.

Katerina snorted. “You should hear the way she and her widowed friends talked about Hearts. You’d have thought he was their plaything.”

Clarissa turned sharply toward Mrs. Sartin.

Plaything…?

Markham had used that term—I am no one’s plaything.

At the time, his offended response hadn’t made sense.

Then she thought of the conversation she’d overheard at the benefit. And then, she thought back to the night she’d run into him at Lady Darlington’s soiree, just after he’d met with Mrs. Sartin.

He’d had an uncharacteristic look of desolation—desolation she’d now seen up close. Twice.

She sucked in her bottom lip.

What had passed between him and Mrs. Sartin out there on that terrace?

She placed her hand on Katherine’s arm. “Would you excuse me?”

“Of course, dear, but—”

She wandered off, not waiting for Katherine to finish. She found Mrs. Sartin by the window.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Sartin.”

They both curtsied.

“Lady Clarissa, I am happy to hear of your brother’s safe return.”

“Thank you,” Clarissa replied.

“Is it true that the two of you will be leaving again soon?”

“Yes.” Clarissa had grown used to the pang that rang in her heart whenever anyone spoke of her leaving. “We will depart as soon as arrangements can be made for a competent steward.”

Mrs. Sartin hummed thoughtfully. “Why is it that aristocratic men so often place their affairs in the hands of others? I couldn’t imagine relinquishing control of my late husband’s investments.”

“Having such a resource must be…pleasant.”

“Nice, it is not. Useful, on the other hand…very.”

“I don’t believe I properly thanked you for the tickets to the benefit.”

“No thanks are required.” She sighed. “Call me a romantic, but young love snares me every time.”

Clarissa’s cheeks pinked. If her attraction had been obvious then, was her hurt on full display now? “It’s been unseasonably dry lately.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Sartin replied. “I noticed.”

“It’s almost as if the storms have been insulted—and stayed away.”

“An interesting analogy…” Mrs. Sartin shrugged.

“And an apt one?” Clarissa forced a swallow. “I mean, is it possible such a thing could have happened before?”

“If I am following correctly, yes. But why are you so interested? Aren’t you planning to depart?”

She sighed. “If I could be assured it would rain every day, I might not leave at all.”

Mrs. Sartin fiddled with a bracelet of sparkling rubies worn over her white gloves. “I would suggest consulting the almanac before you departed.” She glanced up. “I’m quite certain it predicts a wet winter.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Mrs. Sartin shifted her stance. “Lady Horatia and my nephew make a handsome couple, don’t you think?”

Clarissa frowned at the sudden change of subject. “The daughter of a duke would be an advantageous alliance for you.”

“The heart wants what the heart wants…though if the connection assists in business, all the better.” She turned back to Clarissa. “However, I find the greatest satisfaction when I work that equation in reverse.”

“How can business assist in matters of the heart?”

Mrs. Sartin’s eyes twinkled. “An establishment recently came—rather reluctantly, in fact—into my possession. My clerks, of course, wished to examine the books. And what do you think they found among them?”

“I haven’t the vaguest.”

“A betting book.”

Clarissa closed her shawl.

“A betting book,” Mrs. Sartin continued, “I hear, a certain lordship is so desperate to obtain, he has been nearly breaking down the doors.”

It couldn’t be. “Sharpe’s? You purchased Sharpe’s?”

“Darling,” Mrs. Sartin cooed, “Shh.”

Clarissa lowered her voice. “Why would you do such a thing?” And why would Markham be desperately seeking the betting book if he no longer cared?

“Sharpe’s was rather a favorite haunt of one of my nephew’s associates. An associate I do not like.”

“So you purchased his club?”

Mrs. Sartin shrugged. “Just because men pass their laws and their restrictions doesn’t mean women cannot wield power, too. We’re smarter. We’re more ruthless. And when we help one another,” she smiled, “there is no limit to what we can accomplish.”

There may be no limit to what Mrs. Sartin could do—she was a wealthy widow entirely in control of her fortune…

But what if…

But what if, indeed.

A tingling sensation ran up her neck, and a sudden idea reignited hope’s ember.

Her idea would work only if Markham still cared, and she hadn’t dared dream he did. But if he really was as desperate as Mrs. Sartin described…

“I wonder if I could consult your experience,” Clarissa said.

“Of course.” Mrs. Sartin handed her a card. “Why don’t you call? You may ask me whatever questions you wish, and I will happily release the book into your care.”

Even better. “I’ll call.”

“And if the weather turns foul?”

“I’m not worried,” Clarissa grinned. “I think I’ve determined a way to obtain an umbrella. And I do hope you’re right about the rain.”

“Oh, I am,” Mrs. Sartin replied, with a nod.

Clarissa wandered back to her friends, absently fingering the card.

If anyone knew barristers who could help her implement her idea, it would be Mrs. Sartin. And she’d no doubt the lady would be willing to help her turn her idea into a full-fledged plan. Rayne must agree, of course, but why should he balk? It wasn’t as if he truly wanted her to trail him on his travels.

Once she had the betting book, all evidence of scandal would disappear. And, if she could have contracts drawn up as she intended, she could feel fully secure. She could walk toward her life unblemished.

But her life wasn’t out there in the new world.

Her life was with Hearts.

And not just because of the pleasures of his bed…

She thought of him playing that silly slapping game with Julia and Horatia, of those boats tacked to the wall, of the way he counted her scowls as if each one was an achievement, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

Because he listened. Because he shared. Because he was a good, honest man who made her heart light.

“What was that all about?” asked Philippa. “Did I see Mrs. Sartin give you her card?”

“Yes.” Clarissa nodded. “And now, I think I must go.”

“Why?” Philippa exclaimed.

“Because I must live a contradiction.”

“Well that doesn’t make any sense,” Philippa replied.

“It will if Markham is willing to wager what he values most.”

Katherine laughed.

“What’s so amusing?” Philippa asked. “Didn’t they all wager what they valued most in the last game?”

Katherine shook her head no. “Markham wagered me. I believe Clarissa wants something a little more personal.”

Clarissa glanced up. “I’ve been so afraid, Katherine. And I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to understand.”

“Don’t waste time apologizing to me. Take Bromton’s coach, Clarissa. Farring can take me home.”

“I’ll need the whole card suite.”

“I figured as much. And Bromton’s cardroom, I imagine. Now, go.”

She nodded.

Now that she’d decided, she felt a lightness she hadn’t felt in years.

Only, lightness wasn’t the right word.

Lightness one could feel on one’s own, say walking down a lane, or sitting in a comfortable chair by a warm fire. The feeling inside wasn’t something she could experience alone.

What she was feeling was love, fully unfurled.

…

Markham paced Rayne’s drawing room with Rayne’s calling card clutched in his hand. Rayne had summoned him, though Markham did not know why.

One possibility?

Clarissa was with child.

Robbing Clarissa of choice was, of course, wrong, wrong, wrong.

On the other hand, ever since they’d been apart, all color had disappeared. His world was filled with stark, pointed branches, and the only power capable of turning the cold, dead winter back to spring was the thought of Clarissa by his side.

And the thought of her holding his child?

Anguished longing weighted Markham’s breath.

He’d expected shunning Society to bring him a measure of peace, that busying his days with papers and plans, Parliamentary bills, and agricultural journals would distract him from isolation, from loss.

He’d been mistaken.

Love turned ravenous when denied.

And even though he’d banned spirits of any kind—along with wagering and women—unrequited longing gnawed away his strength, as if he were drunk and disoriented.

So disoriented that if Clarissa was not with child, and Rayne had summoned him for the second possible reason—to hasten Markham’s demise—he would almost relish such an end.

He deserved Rayne’s worst.

No matter why Rayne had left his card, Markham answered because honor demanded he face the consequences of his actions. Although a small part of him clung to the slim chance he’d catch a glimpse of Clarissa.

Or even just her scent.

But the dark room didn’t show any signs of a feminine touch. And, if Rayne had told Clarissa he’d summoned Markham, she’d likely taken herself out of Mayfair altogether.

According to Katherine, she would soon depart the country, too.

The urge to call out for her and plead overwhelmed.

He couldn’t think of anything he wouldn’t do, wouldn’t give. He closed his eyes and pictured the folly—just one physical representation of his father’s excessive gestures of love, none of which had ever served their purpose.

He could go down on his knees, promise fantastic gestures of his own, and successfully convince Clarissa to stay, but then both of them would be unhappy.

He preferred to remain the only one in pain.

If he could do nothing else, he could shield the woman he loved from that same pain.

“Well, pup, here we are.”

Markham turned to face the man who had humiliated him in his own home, who’d revealed their secret bet to Katherine, who’d encouraged Julia’s youthful adoration and then violated his sister’s innocence. The man whose sister Markham had, in turn, ravaged with all the gentlemanly restraint of a rutting horse.

“Here we are,” Markham repeated.

Rayne looked somewhat worse for the wear—a black beard with traces of white concealed his skin. His infamous diamond had disappeared. However, deadly confidence had replaced his haughty reserve.

Markham cleared his throat. “If you’ve summoned me to call me out, name your place, your second, and your time—but understand I intend to delope.”

“Magnanimous of you.” Rayne snorted. “Do I have reason to call you out?”

Yes… No…

He’d done nothing with Clarissa she had not desired…with one exception. Markham reddened. “I courted your sister.”

“I know.”

“Under false pretense.”

“I know.”

“I exposed her to public ridicule. And, although she warned me that she had no intention to wed”—his voice cracked—“I fell in love with her.”

“Ah, pup.” The corner of Rayne’s lip turned up. “You did, didn’t you?”

Markham exhaled. “With everything I am.”

“This is why I insisted I see you first—I had to be sure.”

“First?”

Rayne clasped his hands behind his back and strode into the room. He circled Markham slowly, drumming the fingers of his one hand on the back of his other in an ominous rat-a-tat.

Markham grew hot beneath his collar. “Good God, Rayne. I know you’re enjoying my distress. But have some mercy, would you? Just challenge me and get this over with.”

Rayne ceased walking and lidded his gaze. “What makes you so certain I wish to challenge you?”

“Because I would do—did do—the same.”

“What happened between Julia and I involved exactly three kisses—reluctantly given after the minx insisted she would seek experience elsewhere if I did not comply.”

Julia. She’d be his death. “My sister has her own mind—”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Rayne interrupted.

“But her willfulness doesn’t absolve you—”

“I know.”

“And she was absolutely certain—wait. What did you say?”

“I said I know her willfulness does not absolve me. What’s more, I apologize—to you, and to both your sisters. Although I prefer that you deliver the apology to Julia on my behalf.”

“You apologize? What happened to you in America?”

“Time and distance do wonders for a muddled mind.” He paused. “What were you going to say about Julia’s certainty?’

Markham had been going to say Julia was certain she’d been in love. He changed his mind. The man may have apologized, but a menacing air lingered. A combustible menacing air.

Rayne had determined to leave again—this time taking Clarissa with him.

Why shouldn’t Markham leave the past to the past and save Julia any further heartache?

Lord knew he had enough for them both.

“I assure you,” he said slowly, “that Julia wasn’t permanently harmed. She understands now that what she felt was only a passing fancy.”

“A passing fancy,” Rayne repeated with a shake of his head.

Rayne didn’t need to point out that Julia’s passing fancy had permanently altered the course of his life.

“If you didn’t summon me for a challenge, why did you call me here?”

“Because it turns out my sister has her own mind, too. She asked a favor, and, considering the challenges she faced, I felt it prudent to comply…on the condition I speak with you first. And now I have.” Rayne placed a hand on Markham’s shoulder. “Come with me, pup.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Bromton’s…for another high-stakes wager.”

“Are you and Bromton speaking?”

“We’ve reached an understanding.” Rayne’s expression gave nothing away. “But tonight isn’t about me. Or Bromton. It’s about you.”