Chapter Seventeen

He pulled her closer so that she was pressed against his strong, heated body. Thigh to thigh, breasts to chest. Excitement shimmered through her as his mouth covered hers, tender yet passionate. And possessive.

He tasted of…she couldn’t think what. A hint of brandy, perhaps, but most intoxicating was the taste of him, dark, masculine and thrilling.

She pressed closer, opening herself to all that he was demanding of her. She’d given herself morally and mentally to him; now it was physical, all gloriously physical.

She rubbed her fingers along his jawline, enjoying the faint abrasion of his firm, freshly shaven skin. The light fragrance of his cologne mingled with a darker, more masculine scent. She breathed in the scent of him. Spicy, masculine, unique. Addictive.

Still kissing her, he lifted her—effortlessly; she marveled at it—and carried her to the bed. One more kiss and then he stepped back. She felt instantly bereft, but he bent and shoved his breeches and drawers down and kicked them off. All he wore now was his white linen shirt, covering him to midthigh.

She wanted it off him, wanted to see him in all his masculine mystery.

He gazed at her, his eyes dark with desire.

She couldn’t bring herself to ask him to remove his shirt. Rendered dumb with a mix of shyness and desire, she did the only thing she could think of: she pulled her chemise over her head and cast it aside, leaving her naked and nervously facing him.

He gazed at her a moment, and she raised her hands to cover herself. He reached forward and caught her hands in his, saying, “Ah, love, don’t hide your glory from me.” Glory?

He kissed her hands, one by one and when he released them, she dropped them, nerveless.

He stood back and with one motion, pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside. It floated to the floor and settled over her chemise, but Clarissa wasn’t watching. She was riveted by the sight of him.

She’d never seen a naked man before, only statues, and he was so much…more than the ones she’d seen. “You are beautiful,” she murmured, and reached out to touch him, not the strangest part of him—not yet—but the hard, muscled chest, the broad shoulders and strong, muscular arms.

“Men aren’t beautiful,” he said, but she gave him a sultry look and said, “Looking through my eyes, you are.” He laughed softly.

Her eyes devoured that mysterious part of him that looked so hard and erect and fascinating, but before she could look her fill he pressed her back on the bed and joined her there, kissing and caressing her—mouth, eyelids, breasts, stomach, everywhere.

His big, warm hands smoothed, kneaded, and caressed her skin. Clarissa felt desired in a way she’d never before felt. He worshiped her with hands and mouth and body. She tried to caress him the way he was caressing her, but she’d lost all ability to think, only to feel. And to respond.

His hands slipped over her stomach, brushed over the triangle of hair at the base, and caressed her thighs. Her legs fell apart, trembling with need.

He slipped one hand between her thighs and touched her there, in the secret folds of her body. She stiffened at first but then he began to stroke her there, sliding his finger in and out. It felt strange but not at all unpleasant.

Soft shivers of heat began to ripple again and she moved restlessly against his hand, wanting more, but not knowing what. His fingers, his mouth caressed her…until she was dizzy with wanting, a trembling mass of heated, helpless desire.

She twisted and writhed, her whole body responding mindlessly to his touch, urgent and aching, helpless in the grip of a force she had never experienced.

Tension rose within her until she felt on the brink of…something.

And then his hot mouth closed over her breast. He sucked, hard, and she almost came off the bed as hot spears of ecstasy drove through her body.

She heard a high, soft scream as she arched and shuddered and spiraled into a realm where she’d never been before. Never even imagined.

She collapsed against him, but before she could even begin to gather her senses, she felt him pushing into her; thick, hard, hot. She tensed a moment and he paused, then muttered, “It will be all right. Trust me.” He pushed and she felt a swift small stab of pain, not nearly as bad as she’d expected.

So, that was it. She was no longer a virgin.

She lay still beneath him, feeling stretched, and full, and dazed with wonderment. It was all so strange, a little uncomfortable, and yet it felt so right.

She ran her palms over his body, along his ribs and shoulders, enjoying the feel of his firm, strong body. He felt hard and hot and strangely tense—tense as a bowstring, as if he was holding himself back. From what?

He shuddered under her caresses and slipped his hands between her thighs, where they were still joined. His fingers caressed her there and her body responded, building again to…whatever it was. He began to move inside her, then, rocking, thrusting, filling her over and over in a primitive, exhilarating rhythm. She had no control, just clung on to him, wrapping her limbs around him, carried along with his rhythm as they rose together…spiraling higher and higher…

She heard herself scream again as she shattered around him. As if in the distance, she heard him groan, and with one final thrust, he poured himself into her and collapsed.

When Race came to himself again, it was full dark outside. The moon was in its final quarter and faint moonlight had begun to silver the treetops, letting in just enough light for him to see Clarissa’s face as she slept. His chest filled as he gazed at her sweet face and he reached out to gently brush a stray lock of hair from her face.

Her eyelids fluttered open. It wasn’t light enough for him to see the expression in her eyes. “How do you feel?” he murmured.

She smiled and stretched luxuriantly. “Wonderful.”

He couldn’t restrain himself: he leaned forward and kissed her. She was warm and responsive and kissed him back enthusiastically, wrapping her arms around him and cuddling up against him.

“Shall we do that again?” she asked.

He gave a low chuckle. “Not tonight. I think you might need some time to recover.”

She pouted. “But I feel wonderful.”

He kissed her again, filled with relief that her first experience of lovemaking had been a good one. He was more than ready to make love to her again, but with some difficulty he restrained himself. She’d been a virgin. “By our wedding night you’ll be ready to make love several times in a night. But for now, we must practice a little restraint.”

“Oh, very well,” she said, clearly disappointed. “So, I suppose we must leave now.”

“No, it’s early yet.” He gathered her against him and she snuggled happily up to him, twining her limbs around his and nestling her cheek on his chest. They lay together in the faint moonlight that slowly grew, talking of this and that. He told her about the garden his mother had made at his country estate, and how it had been somewhat neglected.

She told him of the plan her new little half sister had made, to go to France and learn to be a lady. And become a painter. And how she was sad to be losing her, but resigned to it because it was what Zo? wanted.

They talked about the house. She didn’t much care about the interior decoration—she was more interested in the garden—oh, and she would want a room where she could make her creams and lotions. But she loved everything about the choices he’d made for the bedroom, and he confessed that he had sought the advice of Leo’s Neapolitan majordomo, Matteo, who had overseen the refurbishment of Leo’s house.

The whole time she talked, she stroked him, rather like a cat. It challenged his restraint—she was still quite an innocent in bedroom matters—but Race felt like purring. To think that this wonderful woman was going to be his wife.

They discussed the wedding and she confided that she would have preferred something small and intimate, but that her sisters and Lady Scattergood and Mrs. Price-Jones were arranging everything and refused to tell her what their plans were. Mrs. Price-Jones stressed that a small wedding would look like a hole-in-the-corner affair, and after all the scandal, it was necessary to make a splash.

“I would be happy to intervene,” Race offered. “It’s your day, after all.”

She smiled and rubbed her cheek against him. “Thank you. It’s tempting, but again I really couldn’t. Everyone’s gone to so much trouble. I’ll just have to endure it—it’s only one day, after all.” She looked up at him, and the look in her eyes made his heart catch. She added, “And now that I know what will be awaiting me—us—at the end of the day I will have something to look forward to.”

He kissed her. She was such a generous soul. He knew she was uncomfortable with crowds, and people looking at her. That would change, he hoped, as she became more confident of her own unique beauty.

“You led me a right merry dance, you know,” Race said.

“It was your own fault. I thought you were a conscienceless rake. Everybody said so.”

“But I told you I wasn’t.”

She rolled her eyes. “And of course men never lie to women to get what they want.”

He laughed. “Fair enough, but I want you to know that I never lied to you. And I never will.”

“I know that now,” she said softly.

“Yes, after your sister set the whole of society speculating about the state of my backside.”

“I’m so sorry about that—but I didn’t know she was going to do it.” She patted the relevant body part, and he flinched slightly. “What?” she said. “What did I just do?”

“Nothing, it’s just a little, um, tender there just now.”

“Why? Did you hurt yourself?”

“Not exactly.” He lifted the sheet and turned away from her so she could see the famous backside.

“Oh, Race…” she said huskily. “Does it hurt?”

“Only when you poke it. And it will toughen up in a few days. It will be fine by the wedding.”

“Oh, Race.” Her eyes misted up and she hugged him tightly. High on his backside a heart had been tattooed, and inside it a name: clarissa.

When the moon was the brightest it would be, he judged it was time to go. “It’s getting late. Must be almost midnight,” he said reluctantly.

She sighed, gave him one last kiss and rolled off the bed. They dressed in silence. Clarissa slipped her dress over her head and then made a small exclamation.

“What is it?”

“I told my maid not to wait up for me. She was to unbolt the back door after the butler went to bed, and then go to bed herself.”

For a moment he didn’t understand what the problem was. And then he did. “Your hooks?”

She nodded. “I’ll never be able to undo them all by myself.”

“Then don’t do them up.”

She looked at him in surprise, then laughed. “If I don’t, the dress will fall down around my ankles the minute I take a step.”

“Not if we only do up the top ones. You’ll be wearing a cloak, after all, and nobody will see. And it’s just a few steps across the garden to Lady Scattergood’s house.” He stepped forward. “Here, let me.” He did up the top hook, and then, unable to resist, planted a slow kiss on her velvety nape.

She shivered against him, then turned and kissed him again. “I wish we didn’t have to leave.”

Oh, but she was hard on his self-control. For two pins he’d take her back to bed…but no. She’d been a virgin. She would still be tender. He picked up her cloak and settled it around her shoulders. “Me, too, but in ten days we’ll be husband and wife, and can spend as much time together as we want.”

As they walked down the stairs, Race began to explain his plans for the rest of the house, but it was quite dark inside and he soon gave up. “We can come back in the morning and look through it properly if you like.” He let her out the back door, then locked it behind him. The gate squeaked as he closed it. “Needs some oil.”

The moon was in its last quarter, but the sky was clear and though the moonlight was faint the garden was all silver and shadows. The fragrance of the nighttime garden rose all around them, enhanced by dew.

It surely was a night for romance.

Hand in hand they strolled, stopping every few minutes to kiss. Race couldn’t get enough of her.

“Clarissa Studley!” A strident female voice broke into their reverie. Race sighed. The irritating neighbor, Milly something-or-other.

Clarissa sighed, but didn’t let go of Race’s hand. “Milly, what are you doing out here at this time of night?”

Milly gasped. “What am I doing? What are you doing out here? Alone. With a man!”

“A man to whom I’m betrothed,” Clarissa said calmly.

“Even so, it’s not at all respectable behavior.”

Clarissa ignored that. “Good night, Milly,” she said, and began to move away.

“Did you hear that gate squeak?” Milly said. “It’s that place where the rude men have been working. Someone must be trying to get in. Or breaking into the garden, which is worse!” She peered anxiously along the path they’d just come, then paused. She turned and stared at Race and Clarissa. “It was you, wasn’t it? You just came from there. You were in that house, weren’t you?”

Clarissa shrugged. And then a strange expression crossed her face and she half turned away from Milly and formed a kind of a hunch under her cloak. Race frowned. What the devil?

Milly went on, “Which means you must know who the new owner is. Who is it, Clarissa? Mama is desperate to know.”

Clarissa looked up at Race. He couldn’t read her expression.

“The new owner,” Race said, “is a very respectable fellow, from the north, I believe. He’s made his fortune as a very successful manufacturer of”—Milly leaned closer—“sausages, I believe. Pork sausages.”

A muffled snort came from beneath the hood of Clarissa’s cloak.

“Sausages!” Milly exclaimed in horror. “Mama will be appalled. We can’t possibly live next door to a manufacturer of anything, let alone one of sausages!”

“He also does a very fine line in pickled pigs’ trotters, I am told, though I haven’t yet tasted them myself.”

More muffled sounds came from beneath his beloved’s cloak.

“Pickled pigs’ trotters!” Milly wailed. “Mama will die! She’ll just die!”

“Oh, nothing so drastic, I’m sure,” Race said soothingly. “I believe his manufacturing practices are very clean and healthful. You could eat off his factory floor, I’m told. And she needn’t eat the pickled pigs’ trotters, after all.”

Milly stared at him. “Mama, eat pickled pigs’ trotters? You must be mad!” She turned and rushed off down the path to give Mama the appalling news.

The minute she was gone Clarissa exploded into laughter. “You, Race Randall, are a wicked, wicked man,” she said between giggles. “Pickled pigs’ trotters? I’ve never even heard of such a thing.”

“I’m fairly sure they exist.” He added, “But what I’m wondering is why you are standing in that peculiar hunched fashion. Have you hurt your back?”

“No. It’s because you didn’t do my dress up properly and it’s falling down. This is the only way I can hold it up. I was terrified that it would fall at Milly’s feet.”

Chuckling, he reached under her cloak and did up the first few hooks again. They resumed their strolling.

“Now, all we need is for Betty to have forgotten to unbolt Lady Scattergood’s back door. Or for Lady Scattergood to be wakeful in the night and gazing out of her bedchamber window,” she said. “She does that sometimes, you know. She once spotted Izzy sneaking back in from an assignation with Leo in the summerhouse. She summoned Leo to explain himself the very next morning.”

“Then I hope she’s fast asleep,” Race said. “That old lady terrifies me.”

Clarissa laughed and hugged him. “I’ll protect you. Beneath that acidic manner of hers, she’s a sweetheart. But she is quite critical of men, I admit.”

Race opened the garden gate and looked up at the house. All the windows were dark. “Check the door is unbolted,” he said, “and then one last kiss.”

Several passionate kisses later—it was simply not possible to stop at one. He didn’t want to let her go at all—Clarissa slipped inside. Race waited until he heard the bolt slide home, then he returned to the garden and watched until faint candlelight from her bedroom window showed his lady love was safe.

Ten interminable days until the wedding. It felt like an age.