Chapter Sixteen

When Race returned to his lodgings later that night he found a note from Clarissa waiting for him, asking him to meet her in the garden at his earliest convenience—which was heavily underlined—as soon as he returned to London. And to tell no one. Also heavily underlined.

Earliest convenience? He’d go now, but it was well after one and she’d either still be dancing at Almack’s or preparing for bed. First thing in the morning then.

He scribbled a reply saying he’d meet her in the garden at eight in the morning, then paid a servant to deliver it.

As he climbed into bed he wondered what she wanted. It sounded quite serious.

By quarter to eight the following morning he was shaved, dressed in buckskins and high boots, and on his way to Leo’s place.

With a knowing smile, Matteo, Leo’s majordomo, let him into the shared garden behind the house. Race could have used the other entrance to the gardens, but he wasn’t willing to reveal his hand just yet.

It was the kind of morning where the sky was a soft pearly gray, glowing with incipient sunlight that hadn’t yet managed to break through. The garden was hushed, motionless, the silence broken only by a blackbird singing joyfully in a tree somewhere.

He quickened his pace.

He glanced into the summerhouse, but it was deserted. The rose arbor then.

His boots crunched on the gravel path as he approached and when he rounded the bend leading to the rose arbor there she was, pacing, looking anxious and adorable in the palest of pinks.

Seeing him, she flew to meet him. He opened his arms to gather her in a hug, but she skidded to a halt and held up her hands as if to ward him off. All color seemed bleached from her skin, her eyes were huge and she eyed him with trepidation. What the devil was going on?

“Miss Studley?”

She swallowed on a gulp, then said, “I’m sorry, Lord Randall, so very sorry. I never meant it to happen. I didn’t want it, but my sister—oh, she meant it for the best, but—oh, please don’t be angry with her, it’s my fault, I should have been firmer. But I didn’t know, and I’m truly, truly s-s-sorry.” Her voice wobbled and he was troubled to see her glorious eyes were swimming with unshed tears.

“Tell me what has distressed you, and if I can do anything—”

“But that’s just it, you can’t do anything. It’s too late for that.”

Race stepped forward to draw her into his arms but she stepped away from him, again holding up her hands as if to rebuff him. “No, you don’t know what we—what a shocking thing I have done.”

He was feeling more and more disturbed. What on earth could she have done? “Then tell me.”

She was silent for a moment, biting her lip, then words tumbled out of her in a torrent. “It’s all my fault. I should have trusted you—I did, but she didn’t know that. But I should have been firmer, clearer—braver—because she doubted I would have the courage, you see, but I did, only she didn’t know that, so she decided—but if I’d known, I would never—but I should have realized and stopped it. But I didn’t and now it’s all too late. So you see, it’s all my fault.”

He didn’t see a thing, except that she was too upset to be coherent.

“Come, let us sit down, and you can tell me all about it.” He led her to the rose arbor and they sat down. “Now then,” he said, “tell me what has distressed you and I promise you, if I can, I will fix it.”

“You can’t.” She drew in several long, shuddery breaths, produced a damp and crumpled lace-trimmed handkerchief and blew her nose fiercely, then turned to him, pale and resolute. Even with her nose all red and her eyes drowning in unshed tears she was beautiful to him.

“It’s my fault,” she said again. “It was Izzy’s idea, but she would never have thought of it if only I had trusted you. And I do, I promise you, though when you hear what I have to tell you, you probably won’t believe me. But when she thought of this, I didn’t—we hadn’t yet had our talk, you see. In the curricle, I mean. Only she didn’t know that and so she did it.”

“Did what?” he asked gently, cutting to what he hoped was the heart of the tangled speech.

“Began her…I suppose you could call it an investigation.”

He picked a fallen rose petal from her shoulder and rubbed it between thumb and finger. As soft as her skin. “Investigation into what?”

“Into your rakishness,” she said tragically. “And your, your b-b-bottom!” One tear rolled down her satiny cheek. She dashed it away and told him a long and tangled story, in which one thing eventually became clear to him—the reason women in society had been speculating about his arse.

“You mean that your sister asked all those women whether I had a heart-shaped birthmark or tattoo on my backside?” he asked unsteadily when she had finished.

“Yes.” She gazed at him, her face utterly woebegone. “The left cheek. I’m so sorry.”

“And they all said it was one or the other? A birthmark or a tattoo?”

She nodded, biting her lip, the picture of nervous contrition. Braced for his righteous outrage, if he was any judge.

Race couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He threw back his head and laughed.

Incredulous, she stared at him. “You think it’s funny?”

“I do. Preposterous, ridiculous, outrageous and very funny,” he managed when he’d brought his mirth under control. There was relief as well as amusement in his reaction, he knew: he’d been sure something truly disastrous had occurred and that she was going to tell him the betrothal was at an end. But this…He laughed again. All those women, discussing his arse. It was too ridiculous for words.

“And you’re not furious with me? Or with Izzy?”

“Not a bit.” She didn’t seem to believe him, so he drew a finger down her cheek and added softly, “Stop worrying, sweetheart.”

The tears came then, and he gathered her into his arms and murmured soothing things, holding her soft body against him, rubbing her back soothingly. It was strangely peaceful in the quiet of the garden, sitting beneath a cascade of roses, their glorious scent dew-drenched and warming under the morning sun. Essence of Clarissa. She always smelled of roses.

After a few minutes her sobs slowed and drew to a shuddering close. He pulled out a handkerchief and dried her eyes.

She sat up, straightened her dress, and smoothed her hair back off her face. Struggling to regain her composure. Race just watched. After a moment, she darted him a doubtful glance. “You really don’t mind?”

“That sister of yours probably needs a good spanking, but no, I really don’t mind. Gossip doesn’t bother me. I’ve lived with it all my life. And her little scheme was dam—dashed clever, I have to admit.”

She sighed. “You probably won’t believe me, but I had decided to trust you before this happened. Because of that talk we had. In the curricle.”

“I believe you.”

She turned wide eyes to him. “Will you forgive me?”

“I will. On one condition.”

“Condition?” she repeated apprehensively.

“That you marry me as soon as possible.”

Her eyes widened. “You still want to marry me? After what we did?”

“I do. Very much.”

“Then I will marry you, Lord Randall,” she said shyly. “I know you care for me, and that will be enough because I love you and I trust you and—

“Care for you? I don’t just care for you, you adorable goose. I love you, madly, passionately, with every fiber of my body and every drop of blood in my heart. I adore you, I—” He gave up trying to explain—words were so inadequate—and decided to demonstrate.

Cupping her face in his hands he covered her mouth in a kiss. She kissed him back, with all the warmth and sweet eagerness he craved, twining her arms around him and pulling him close, as if she couldn’t get enough of him.

As he couldn’t get enough of her.

After a while, he forced himself to release her. His body was thrumming with desire and he had to fight for control. Why did this scene have to take place in the middle of a shared blasted garden, where anyone could come across them? On this blasted hard wooden seat. With bees buzzing around him. He surely did pick his moments. So much for the skilled rake.

He glanced down at the woman in his arms and all irritation faded away. Lord, but she was lovely.

Curled into the curve of his body, nestled against his heart, she gazed up at him, her eyes glowing with love and arousal. “You love me,” she said softly. It wasn’t a question.

“I have loved you almost since the beginning, since the Arden ball, in fact.”

She sat up and stared at him. “The Arden ball? When that horrid Lord Pomphret publicly denounced my sister Izzy as a bastard?”

He pulled her back where she belonged, in his arms, snuggled against his heart. “Yes. You marched across that dance floor like a young Boadicea, head held high, and claimed your sister, defying anyone to deny it. You were so beautiful and brave, I vowed then and there that you were the only woman for me, and I’d do whatever it took to win you for my bride.”

She let out a long, soft sigh and nuzzled her cheek against him. “I loved you, too, almost from the start.”

“Really? But you made it clear that you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

She gave him a rueful look. “I know. I’m sorry. I tried very hard not to fall in love with you, but I couldn’t help it. I was frightened of marrying a rake, you see, because of…” She looked away.

“Your father?” He understood now.

She nodded. “He broke my mother’s heart, over and over, with his infidelities. And then…Izzy’s mother…and Zo?’s.”

There was a short silence, then he said in a low voice, “I will treasure and protect your heart for as long as I live.” It was a vow.

She eyed him searchingly, then her face quivered slightly and she flung her arms around him, lifted her mouth to his and kissed him.

Something was wrong.

The wedding arrangements were surging ahead with the speed of a runaway coach. What they’d planned as a small, intimate affair with just family and a handful of friends was quickly turning into a Society Event.

Race knew why. He’d heard the talk. And it infuriated him.

Apparently Lord Randall—the famously elusive Rake Randall—had been snared at last, and by a plain dab of a girl of undistinguished birth and substantial fortune. Society was agog, so much so that even he had heard the whispers and speculation.

How had she managed it?

He couldn’t possibly want her. Why had he allowed it to happen?

Would he break and run at the last minute?

And of course, everyone wanted to come to the wedding.

Ten days earlier, when he and Clarissa had come in from the garden to announce that the betrothal was now official and the wedding was going ahead, she’d been happy, glowing, excited. Now, the last few times he’d seen her she seemed pale and preoccupied. Oh, she made an effort to appear as normal, pasting on a bright smile from time to time, but she was no kind of actress and he could tell that underneath her general happiness, something was eating at her.

Was it the gossip?

But their entire courtship, such as it was, had been riddled with gossip. And she’d told him several times that she didn’t care about gossip. So what was it?

Race led her outside to her favorite spot in the garden, the rose arbor. “What is it, love? You seem worried.”

She seemed flustered by the question. “Oh, do I? Sorry. It’s just—oh, it’s nothing. I’m just being silly, that’s all.”

“You’re never silly. Now tell me what’s worrying you.”

She looked around as if seeking escape, or rescue, or perhaps inspiration, but finding none, she slumped a little. “It’s nothing. I’m just…Everyone is talking about what an unequal match this is.”

“Unequal? In what way?”

“You’re so charming and urbane and handsome and sophisticated and I’m just a girl from the country, shy and plump and plain, and—”

“Stop right there! You’re gorgeous and not the least bit plain and if others can’t see it, well, I’m happy to keep your beauty a secret known only to a handful of people, people who love you.” His kiss was long and lingering. Someday she’d realize she was as beautiful as he knew her to be.

He forced himself to end it. He was aching to make love to her, but this was neither the time nor the place. “Now, is it really the gossip you’re worried about?”

She sighed. “Not completely.”

“Then what?” He waited a moment then said, “Of course if it’s private I won’t press you, but if it’s something I can help with…”

She flushed. “It’s just…the wedding night.”

Was that it? Relief surged through him. Virginal anxieties—he should have expected it, her not having a mother to advise her. Race pulled her hard against him and kissed her again. “Don’t be worried, love. You’ll like it, you’ll see.”

“Oh, I know—Izzy explained things to me, and so did Mrs. Price-Jones—and I can’t wait, truly I can’t. I do want you, terribly. It’s just that…”

“What?”

“I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you.”

He kissed her again. “You won’t.”

But he could see that she didn’t really believe him, and that only one thing would prove to her that she really was as beautiful and desirable as he found her.

There was such huge pressure on brides on their wedding day. Everyone watching, everyone knowing what was to come, everyone except the innocent virgin bride, kept ignorant right up until the revelations of her wedding night. It was barbaric.

She sighed, leaning against him. “I just wish it was all over, and we could get on with our lives.”

“We could, if that’s what you want.”

She gave him a startled look. “What? Skip the wedding? But we couldn’t. All the arrangements—”

“Not the wedding, the wedding night. We could anticipate it, just the two of us, with nobody else the wiser.”

Her eyes were wide. Color came and went in her cheeks as she considered what he was saying.

“It would put your mind at rest,” he added persuasively. “Set you free to enjoy your wedding day without any worries about the night hanging over you.”

“Could we?” she breathed. “But where? How?”

“Leave it to me.”

“Not the summerhouse.”

“No, somewhere we won’t be disturbed. Leave it to me. I’ll arrange everything.”

“When?”

She was wound up like a spring, he thought. The sooner they came together and her fears were assuaged, the better. Besides, he could hardly wait, himself. “This evening.”

Her eyes widened. “Tonight?”

“Why wait? You don’t have any engagements that can’t be canceled, do you?”

“No,” she almost whispered.

He rose. “Good, then I’ll meet you here at eight o’clock.” He kissed her briefly and left. He knew exactly where and when he wanted this momentous event to take place, but there were certain arrangements to be made. He wanted it to be perfect.

Clarissa slipped out of the house just before eight. She was wearing a dark gray velvet cloak with the hood up so as to be as inconspicuous as possible. She’d hardly eaten a thing at dinner—a mixture of nerves and excitement and anticipation—and retired to bed early, saying she thought she had a headache coming on, but a good sleep would fix that.

And then, she’d waited until the coast was clear and crept down the back stairs. Oh, but she hated telling lies, even small ones like this. But it had to be done.

She waited in the rose arbor. It was an odd place to meet, inside a wholly enclosed garden, but she supposed it was better than waiting out on the street for him to collect her—and he could hardly collect her from Lady Scattergood’s. But where was he planning to take her?

The sun hung low in the sky. A few bees buzzed around the roses, heavy with pollen, getting their last feed before returning to their hive. Where did bees live in the city? she wondered. In the country they lived in the skeps farmers and beekeepers made for them, and sometimes she’d seen hives tucked into a hollow tree, or a fresh swarm hanging in a tree, but she’d never seen a skep or a swarm in London. And hollow trees were soon removed.

Oh, where was he?

“Ready?” The deep voice made her start, even though she’d been expecting him at any moment. He wore buckskin breeches and shiny high boots, a dark gray coat and a plain buff waistcoat. They weren’t going anywhere formal then.

Of course not. They were going to…to bed.

“Yes.” She jumped up. His arms went around her and he kissed her and she immediately felt better. “Where are we going?”

“Not far.” He slipped an arm around her and started walking toward the other side of the garden.

“We’re not going out via Izzy and Leo’s house, then?”

“No.”

That was a relief. She loved her sister, but this was private. “You’re being very mysterious.”

He smiled down at her. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Then trust me. It’s a surprise.”

He led her up to the rear gate of one of the houses that backed onto the garden. She halted. “This is the house that was sold a while back, the one the new owner is refurbishing.”

“That’s right.” He pulled out a key and opened the gate.

She didn’t move. “Do you know the new owner?” He inclined his head and she said, “So you have permission to enter?”

“I thought you said you trusted me.”

She did, so despite her reservations, she allowed him to lead her inside the house. The late-evening sun shone through the windows, gilding the signs of building works in progress with a gentle glow. The house smelled faintly of paint and plaster dust and sawdust. Tradesmen’s tools lay discarded in a corner, and a ladder, bucket and rolls of wallpaper sat at the entrance of one of the rooms.

Uncomfortable with trespassing, even assuming he had permission, she moved toward the front door. “Not that way, up here,” he said, directing her toward the stairs, which had recently been polished.

She hesitated. Surely they weren’t going to make love here, in this half-finished, empty, stranger’s house. She’d thought he’d take her somewhere nice, like maybe a suite in a hotel or something. “I thought—”

“Trust me?”

She sighed and began to climb the stairs, feeling quite let down. “Very well.” But if he expected her to make love among the tradesmen’s tools on the floor—even on a dust sheet—he would have another think coming.

But no, surely he wouldn’t? She had to trust him.

They reached the first floor and he stopped in front of the closed door. “Close your eyes and keep them closed until I say ‘open,’?” he told her.

She closed them and kept them closed as he led her inside the room.

“Open.”

“Ohhhhh.” She looked around her in amazement. The red-gold rays of the setting sun burnished the leaves of the trees outside, the light revealing a fully furnished bedchamber, papered in delicate Chinese-pattern wallpaper in pale blue and gold. The floorboards were polished to a high gloss and a large, soft, blue and cream carpet covered most of the floor. An elegant wardrobe, dressing table and washstand, complete with water jug and bowl sat along the walls, and in the center of the room sat a large, carved wooden bed, fully made up with mattress, plump pillows and a satin eiderdown. The bedclothes had been turned down invitingly, showing snowy sheets. The contrast with the scene downstairs was astonishing.

She turned to him in amazement. “Whose is this house?”

He smiled. “Ours.”

“Ours?” She glanced around the room again. “Really?”

He nodded.

“But how, Race? When? And why didn’t you say so earlier?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It certainly is that.” She wrinkled her brow, thinking back. “You must have bought this house…I don’t know, weeks ago? Months?” She couldn’t remember exactly, but it seemed to her that the sounds of workmen had been ringing across the garden for ages.

His smile deepened. “I bought it three days after the Arden ball.” He let that sink in, then added, “I told you I made up my mind about you back then. I’d hoped to have the refurbishments finished by the time we returned from our honeymoon.”

She could still hardly believe it. “You bought this house? For me? Three days after the Arden ball?”

He nodded. “I thought you’d like to have your sister living just across the garden, and Lady Scattergood, too—you seem quite fond of her. And Lady Tarrant and the little girls. And, of course, you’ll still have your beloved garden—while we’re in London, that is. At other times we’ll be at my country estate.”

She gazed around the room in wonder. All that time ago…“I love it, of course. It’s wonderful. Perfect. But what if I’d said no?”

He shrugged. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

Stunned, she sat down on a chair covered in embroidered straw-colored satin. “And this room?” She gestured.

“That I had to pull together today. It was a bit of a rush job, and you can probably still smell the paint. I’ve had the windows open all day to dispel it.”

She shook her head. “It just smells new and clean. But I can’t believe you arranged all this today, even the bedclothes. It’s all just wonderful.”

“The bedclothes were the most important. As to the rest, ‘needs must.’?”

She gave him a mock-stern look. “When the devil drives? Are you calling me a devil, Race Randall?”

He chuckled. “No, sweetheart, it was my own devil that was driving me, to get this room ready for the most important event of my life.”

“Oh.” It all came flooding back, the reason why she was here in the first place. “That.”

“Yes, my love, that.” He prowled toward her.

Suddenly nervous, she rose and moved to the window. The golden glory of the setting sun filtered through the leaves of the trees. She could catch only glimpses of the garden beneath. There were no curtains, but it was very private.

“You won’t need this.” She felt her cloak slide from her shoulders and for a moment felt like clinging to it. But that was ridiculous. She wanted this, wanted this man. Trusted him. Loved him.

She turned and found herself enclosed by his arms.

“Doubts?” he murmured.

She shook her head, unable to speak. Nerves, yes, a few. Doubts? Only of her ability to please him. She loved him, wholly and completely. He kissed her softly and led her to the bed. He draped her cloak over the armchair, then shrugged off his coat.

Clarissa sat on the edge of the bed. What should she do now? She supposed she should take off her clothes, too, but she hadn’t thought ahead sufficiently. Her dress was fastened down the back with hooks: she needed a maid to unhook her. She should have worn a different dress, but all she’d been thinking about was trying to look nice for him. Oh, why hadn’t she realized it? Every time she’d thought about her wedding night she’d imagined herself already in bed, wearing the beautiful embroidered silk nightgown that Miss Chance had given her. She gave one to each of her special clients when they got married.

Clarissa plucked at the fabric of her dress with nerveless fingers. Oh, this was so awkward. Any moment now he’d turn around, expecting her to have removed her dress.

He pulled off his boots, then his socks.

She bent to untie the strings of her shoes, but one had knotted. She tugged at it futilely.

“Allow me.” Dressed only in breeches and a shirt he knelt at her feet, and without even trying to undo the knot, slipped one shoe off, then the other. She sat there like a doll, feeling foolish, gazing down at his thick, dark hair, wanting to run her fingers through it but unable to move.

He set her shoes neatly aside, then reached for the ties of her stockings. His hands were cold and she jumped, feeling them on her skin. “Sorry,” she whispered. And then confessed, “I need a maid to unhook my dress. I didn’t think…”

He glanced up, smiled and rose. “I will be your maid tonight.” He drew her to her feet. “Now, my lovely,” he began.

She grimaced.

He paused, his hands on her shoulders. “Why the face?”

“I’ve told you before, I don’t like false compliments. I know you mean well, but truly, I don’t need them. I know I’m not pretty.”

“False compliments? You think I’d offer you Spanish coin—false flattery—today, of all days?”

She just looked at him.

“Come here.” He led her to the long cheval looking glass. She glanced at her reflection and looked away. She never liked looking at her reflection.

“Almost every woman I’ve ever known,” he told her, his voice soft and deep, “is critical of her looks. Even those who most people think are beautiful will look in a mirror and see only what they consider flaws. But if you could see yourself through a man’s eyes, specifically my eyes…”

She couldn’t speak.

He stood behind her facing the looking glass, his eyes dark and intense. “You have the sweetest face, full of honesty, kindness and strength. And every time we meet I want to do this.” He ran the back of his fingers down one cheek, slowly, lingeringly. “Warm silk, and so soft…with a hint of rose-petal blush.”

She watched her blush rise, and swallowed.

“Your eyes are as clear as a mountain stream, so expressive and lovely I sometimes feel I could happily drown in them. And when you smile, the radiance that shines from them…

“Which brings me to your lovely, luscious mouth.” His thumb ran gently over her lips and a warm shudder trembled through her. “Utterly delectable.”

He turned her around, bent and kissed her, just a brush of lips over lips. It left her hungry, wanting more. She raised herself onto her toes and kissed him back.

He made a low humming noise deep in his throat and sucked on her full lower lip. Her legs trembled, suddenly weak. She clutched at his shoulders with urgent fingers.

He ran his hands slowly up from her hips, caressing her waist, and cupped her breasts lightly. They seemed to swell under the caress. Her nipples, under the layers of fabric, were hard, aching little points. He rubbed his thumb against them and she gasped as heat rippled through her, pooling deep in her belly.

He ran his hands along her spine, and she felt his long, warm fingers at the back of her dress. She shivered. He was unhooking her.

“You can’t see this part of you, so pale and satin-velvet it is, but I’ve been dying to do this every time I’ve met you. Every single time. And now…” Turning her back to the looking glass, he bent and kissed the nape of her neck, his mouth warm and faintly moist against her skin. Shivers of pleasure ran through her. She arched back against him. The heat of his body soaked into her.

He swiftly removed the pins from her hair, his fingers skillful and experienced. He moved her slightly to catch the last rays of sun. “Your hair is like a soft cinnamon cloud, a thousand colors in the setting sun.”

She gazed out of the window at the gleaming rose-gilt of the sun piercing the lowering clouds. A whisper of breeze shivered through the leaves of the trees outside the window, making them dance.

“And the fragrance…” He buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply. “You always smell deliciously of roses.”

“I make a rinse from rose petals,” she mumbled. She was barely able to muster a sentence: his caresses and low, murmured love-speech were washing over her, leaving her weak and dizzy with desire.

She felt her dress slide from her shoulders and pool at her hips. “Even your shoulders are lovely, so smooth and round and creamy soft,” he murmured, kissing them. Warm shivers flowed into her wherever his mouth touched.

She watched him in the mirror, entranced by his intense expression, his almost fierce concentration on her. Just her.

He smoothed big hands slowly down her body—she felt them every inch of the way. When her dress dropped to the floor, she was barely aware of it. Without thinking she stepped out of it. He bent and whisked it away, tossed it carelessly over the back of the chair on top of his coat, and slipped his arms back around her.

Clad now only in her fine linen chemise, very aware that beneath it she was quite naked, she turned in the circle of his arms, slipped her hands around his neck and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.