Chapter Eleven

Francis opened the door to his rooms. Clarissa's familiar lilac scent hit him. He had endured a lonely and heart-sore week without her. He'd been smitten with her since he met her, but it was now obvious he was completely and irrevocably in love.

All was silent except for the tick of his carriage clock on the mantelpiece. He strode to the bedroom, which he had been using again in Clarissa's absence, and opened the inner door. Curled on top of the bed was his wife, dressed only in a silk wrap over her chemise.

His heart hammered in his chest at the sight of her. In a few strides he was beside the bed. He stroked his hand over her cheek while his eyes soaked up the wonder of her unblemished beauty.

Her blue eyes flickered open. "Frank. You're here," she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep. "I've missed you so."

"And I you." He leaned forward to buss her on the lips.

She eased her mouth away from his. "Wait, Frank. I want to tell you something." She put her a finger on his lips to hold him at bay. "I've decided that I don't want a marriage of convenience."

He slumped down onto the bed and eyed her flushed face. She wanted to separate? When she'd told him immediately after their wedding that she was leaving London for a week with the cast, his heart had slowed at the thought of being without her even for a few days.

To lose her forever would destroy him.

But he mustn't let her know how devastated he felt by her impending departure. He sat on the bed, body rigid, holding her gaze and steeling himself for bad news. "You don't want to continue our marriage?"

She frowned at him. "No, yer mug," she said lapsing into Duke Street Orphanage cant that elocution lessons hadn't eradicated entirely. "I mean I want more from our marriage. I want you."

His body flared. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He set his lips on hers.

She eagerly returned his kiss. Her response was every bit as enthusiastic now as during their parting kiss a week ago.

His heart pounded with hope.

"Understand now, Frank?"

"Mmhm. Clarissa, you're telling me all I need to know," Francis murmured against her lips. He deepened the kiss and for a few more minutes she returned each stroke, nip and lick he gave.

He leaned his forehead against hers. "I want to make you happy." For the rest of my days.

"And I you." You still don't want babies, do you?

Clarissa shook her head. "Is there any way to avoid that fate?"

"There are several ways, some more successful than others. Trust me?"

"I do, Frank, I do. And I want you badly." She pulled his head down for another kiss. Then her slender hands got busy untying the linen cravat around his neck.

Francis shrugged off his coat. Clarissa watched him with wide eyes as he flipped open the long line of buttons on his waistcoat, consigning the garment to the floor.

Clarissa sat up on her knees to pull his shirt from his pantaloons and tug the linen over his head. As her gaze tracked across his torso, she sucked in a breath. Then she reached out a hand to touch his broad chest and glide her fingers over the ridges of his abdomen. She let out a soft sigh.

He flexed his muscles. "Like what you see?" he teased her, gratified that she was impressed by his sport-hardened body. Just as well he had kept up with his brothers' physical pursuits, necessary for their roles in the army and navy.

Her face flushed. "Oh, yes."

He slid the silk wrap from her shoulders and it puddled around her on the bed. A dusting of freckles graced her shoulders like stars in a milky sky. He pressed his lips to each in succession, as he traced a path across her soft skin, leaving it flushed and heated.

Her hands moved to the waistband of his pantaloons to tussle with the placket buttons. His body tensed. He covered her hands to halt their activity. "Let me," he said, and released the tapes that tightened the waistband. He heeled off his shoes and peeled the pantaloons and stockings from his legs, leaving him in only his drawers.

Clarissa leaned forward to untie the ribbon garters that held up her woolen stockings.

Francis slid his hand up her calves to stop her. He rolled off her stockings, one by one, placing kisses on the exposed skin of each bared limb as it was exposed.

Only her chemise remained. Holding his gaze, Clarissa tugged it over her head, revealing all her naked beauty. Francis's mouth went dry at the sight of her luscious body.

He crawled up the bed on his hands and knees until he rested above her on his outstretched arms. Then he leaned down and bussed her kiss-swollen lips.

She responded enthusiastically.

Francis palmed a breast, massaging its roundness and felt his member harden further. He licked and kissed his way down her neck to her breasts, then swirled his tongue over each erect nipple in turn. Clarissa arched her back to thrust them forward for his attention. His breathing became short and fast. His mouth tracked lower over her belly until he reached the junction of her legs.

She was already slick for him. With mouth and hands, he transformed her into a needy wanton, eager for him.

She climaxed with a ragged gasp and looked up at him with wonder in her eyes. "Oh, Frank, you have surprised me." Clarissa looked at him with warmth in her eyes.

He chuckled and kissed her deeply. "In a good way, I hope?"

His erection ached for release, but he would not compromise her wish to succeed on the stage by getting her with child. He needed to obtain a French letter as soon as possible.

"The best. And I like you the more for it."

"Anything for you, Clarissa," he promised.

"But this can't be all that coupling involves," she said, and pulled him on top of her.

"No, it's not," he murmured in her ear, then nipped and laved her earlobe. "But if you want to remain child-free, we must be patient until I can obtain the means to protect you," he said as he rolled off her. His cock jutted against her hip.

She looked down at his rampant member. "There must be some way I can relieve your…um discomfort, as you relieved mine?

"There is, if you don't mind helping?"

Her eyes glittered with eagerness. "Oh, I would like that," she purred like a temptress.

He lifted her hand from his chest and settled it around his penis, guiding her hand with his in a slow pump along the shaft.

She looked startled for a moment, then licked her bottom lip as she concentrated on her task.

With his help, she found the perfect rhythm, then he returned his attention to kissing her senseless and working her with his hands. Their moans and panting breaths were the only sounds in the room. Clarissa's second climax initiated his own groaning release onto her belly.

He collapsed beside her. "Thank you, my angel," he murmured against her lips. They shared another long kiss. He drew back to gaze into her darkened eyes, hoping to wordlessly convey all the love he felt for her. After a last sip of her lips, he set to cleaning them both up with a flannel.

Afterwards, she snuggled into the curve of his body with a satisfied sigh before her eyelids drifted closed.

Lying awake beside Clarissa as she slumbered, he savored the afterglow of their lovemaking and wondered at the change in Clarissa's regard for him following their week apart.

They hadn't actually discussed their future, only their agreement that they belonged together in a marriage that gave full reign to their mutual desire for each other. He wanted absolutely everything with her.

And it appeared that she wanted the same.

Still savoring the intense pleasure of their lovemaking—far more satisfying than he had ever experienced with his Oxford landlady— Francis closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.

They woke a few hours later. He and Clarissa barely made it to The Regent Theatre on time. As Francis stood in the wings watching her, he could only marvel at the extra sparkle that radiated from her. Clearly, their lovemaking had added a new dimension to her performance.

And the audience lapped it up, if the cheers from the pit and the thunderous clapping from the boxes was any indication. His talented wife thrived on the stage and he now understood why she put herself on display for their hungry attention. It wasn't about them—it was about her. Her love of the role; her sense of freedom in character; and of course, the acclaim.

This realization didn't completely suppress his twinges of jealousy and unease that their cheering instigated. Protecting her was second nature to him now. He hurried to her.

Clarissa changed from her costume immediately after the show, before greeting all her admirers waiting in the communal dressing room. Then, she looped her arm through Francis's and almost dragged him from the theatre.

As soon as they entered his rooms, they fell on each other, tearing off their clothes. Francis lifted the chemise-clad Clarissa into his arms and carried her into their bedchamber. He dropped her on the feather bed and stripped the last layer from her body.

Her nimble fingers worked on the tapes of his unmentionables, apparently eager to renew her acquaintance with his throbbing member and to repeat the relief she had given him. But first he would enjoy pleasuring her again.

***

The next morning, Francis forced himself from the warmth of his bed and the delights of his wife. Yesterday, his employer, Reverend Randolph, had advised him that their bishop had requested that Francis meet with him this morning at 9 o'clock sharp. And he dare not be late.

He hurried to wash and pull on his clothes.

At the Bishop's Chambers, Francis paced the stark waiting room outside his superior's office.

Finally, the door opened and his lordship's assistant stepped into the room. "You may come in now, Reverend Brody." He held the door open for Francis to pass through. The man hadn't become any less dour and distant through further acquaintance.

Francis halted abruptly just inside the room. The door clicked closed behind him. His stomach sank. The room held a welcoming committee.

The bishop, wearing his wig of office, sat behind his ornate desk, while every adversary Francis could name was aligned on seats on either side of the room. Reverend and Miss Hodges; Mrs. Dora Jenkins, accompanied by the Earl of Marchmere; and Viscount Travener. Even his employer, Reverend Randolph, was present. This was not an interview with the bishop, but a star chamber meeting to try him.

"Take a seat, Reverend Brody," the bishop instructed, pointing to the straight-backed chair centered in the room.

A heaviness formed in Francis's stomach. "First, I would like to know what is going on here."

The bishop looked over the top of his reading glasses at him. "Of course. A number of complaints about your recent activities have been brought to my attention over the last two weeks. The claims are disturbing. I've brought you here to hear your side of the story."

"And if I don't submit to this process?" Francis asked.

"I will have no choice other than to dismiss you from your position as curate to St Paul's Parish immediately."

The heaviness in Francis's stomach morphed into a lead weight. He strode to the chair and subsided onto its bare wood.

"You came to me two weeks ago, requesting a common license to marry a young woman of good character, who you claimed was in a dire situation facing homelessness. Now I find from the testimony of her aunt, Mrs. Dora Jenkins," he nodded towards that woman, "that you have been the instrument that has seduced her niece from her care."

Mrs. Jenkins nodded in agreement. "He did."

The bishop sent her a quelling look. "What do you have to say to that charge, Brody?"

Anger ignited in Francis's chest. "I say that is a complete misrepresentation of the situation. My wife, who is of good character in every way, was being pressured by Mrs. Jenkins to take a lover."

He pointed at Travener. "That man. He had already tried to force himself upon her, causing her to flee from a moving carriage and seek my assistance to escape her aunt. My wife moved residence and cut off contact with her aunt, but Mrs. Jenkins found her again and used further coercion to persuade Clarissa comply with her wishes."

The bishop looked taken aback by this. "Is this true, madam?"

"O'course not! She liked Lord Travener. Even went to supper with him a couple of times. Would have been a good match." Her words showed a complete lack of empathy for her niece's wishes. And her eyes were as cold and flat as an adder considering its prey.

The bishop raised an eyebrow. "And you, Lord Travener? Did you force yourself upon the actress?"

"Didn't force m'self upon her. Might have tried to kiss her. Merely a peck. No need to leap from a carriage though!"

"So, she did jump from a moving carriage to remove herself from your presence?"

Travener indicated Marchmere and Mrs. Jenkins with a flip of his hand. "We all thought she had gone crazy. Jumping out of moving carriage at night."

"So, you weren't alone together?" the bishop asked.

"Not at all." Travener feigned wide-eyed innocence.

The bishop turned back to Mrs. Jenkins. "And what did you do to preserve your niece's modesty when Lord Travener kissed her?"

Mrs. Jenkins's eyes darted left and right as though she sought an escape route. "Nothing needed to be done. She wasn't in any danger of harm."

The bishop's mouth firmed into a straight line. "We do not seem to agree in this matter."

"Your grace," Reverend Hodges cut in, "none of this has any bearing on the fact that the actress was discovered leaving Reverend Brody's lodgings dressed in men's apparel in broad daylight. Scandalous behavior! And what was she doing there? Did they reside together? That my daughter should have witnessed such behavior from a man of the cloth is unforgiveable!" The Reverend's usually ruddy face had become blotched with puce as he spoke.

"Care to explain what happened, Brody?" the bishop asked Francis.

Francis's jaw clenched. This was a far harder charge to address. "Yes, your grace. Following the incident just related, Miss Bartlett sought sanctuary with my sisters who run the Brody School for Young Ladies in Harley Street. They were away from home for the Christmas vacation, so their school's porter brought her to me for her safety. I gave her overnight accommodation as she refused to go to the Mission in Wapping in the middle of the night."

"So, it is true that you spent the night under the same roof, unchaperoned?"

Francis had no way of avoiding the truth of that statement. "If you call my sleeping on the floor in front of my sitting room fire, while she slept in the bed in another room, sleeping under the same roof, then yes. There were no liberties taken, I can assure you. The lady had just escaped from a molester. This man." He jabbed finger in the direction of Travener and sent him an angry glare.

"What about his public attack on me with a sword, your grace? Surely you don't condone your clergymen attacking people with weapons?" Travener asked in his drawling manner.

"How do you respond to the charge of attacking Lord Travener?" the bishop asked, a thread of disapproval in his usually neutral voice.

"As Lord Travener was attempting to help Mrs. Jenkins force Miss Bartlett into a carriage against her will, I say I had full justification to fight him off."

The bishop's eyebrows rose so high they almost reached his white wig.

"What about his behavior towards my daughter, your grace?" Reverend Hodges interjected in an affronted voice. "He threw my daughter over and married an actress!"

Fanny sobbed into her handkerchief. "We were to be married, but he abandoned me for her," she wailed.

Francis inhaled a deep breath, fighting the tension in chest. "That is untrue, Fanny, and you know it. You broke off our informal engagement. Quite indisputably. I married Miss Bartlett after that occurrence."

"Is this true, Miss Hodges?" the bishop asked gently.

She looked up at the bishop, her eyes red and watery. "Yes, but—"

"She was too upset—" her father began.

The bishop held up a hand cutting off the Reverend's excuse. "And you, Lord Marchmere, what accusation do you have to make about Reverend Brody?"

"He comes from a family of raving Benthamites. Education for women in the classics. Votes for women. Whatever next? It's unnatural! Quite inappropriate for the church. A bad influence. He shouldn't be let anywhere near women and children." Marchmere's look, of outrage with a pinch of smugness, stoked the anger in Francis's belly.

The bishop's eyes widened in response to this statement. "Ahem. Is that your only complaint about Reverend Brody?"

"Isn't that enough?" Marchmere huffed.

The bishop turned to Francis's employer, Reverend Randolph, who sat stiffly on his chair, looking embarrassed to be in the room. "And what about you, Reverend Randolph? I asked you here because you have the longest and closest association with Brody. What is your assessment of his work and character?"

Reverend Randolph pushed his fingers into his receding hairline in a gesture of discomfort, but his kindly face held compassion. "I have had no issues with the work of Reverend Brody during his time at St Paul's. He comes from an educated, albeit Avant guard, family that's heavily involved in social issues. I knew his father—a good clergyman. Until Francis's recent hurried wedding, I thought him a steady and sensible young minister, but his choice of wife…an actress…now makes me wonder…"

"And yet you married them?"

"At the time I did not realize she was the latest star of The Regent Theatre, the leading lady of a burletta, no less. I cannot imagine a woman less suited to the role of a clergyman's wife, who must of course be an irreproachable role model for women and girls."

Francis groaned. Clarissa was blameless, but her profession was not considered reputable. "I can only re-iterate that my wife is without moral blemish and fully supports me in my charitable works."

"That's as may be, Brody, but—" Reverend Randolph answered.

"She will be an asset to my work in St Paul's parish, encouraging other theatre people into the church. They will feel less judged if there is one of their own profession by my side."

The bishop didn't answer immediately, then he swept his gaze over the assembled company. "Thank you all for coming this morning and providing your testimonies. This inquiry is now concluded. Reverend Brody, please remain behind, so that I may talk with you." He picked up a pen from his desk and dipped it into his inkstand and began to write on the document before him.

The witnesses in his inquisition trooped past him. Mrs. Jenkins scowled at him. Marchmere didn't deign to look him in the eye. Typical of the man.

Viscount Travener paused to lean down and whisper in his ear. "Gentlemen entertain actresses, they don't marry them, you fool."

Anger exploded in Francis's chest. He jerked out his seat, his hands fisted. "Never disrespect my wife again," he hissed at the man, who had the sense to step back and hurry on his way, the smirk wiped off his face.

Reverend Randolph placed a steadying hand on Francis's shoulder. "Let it go, young man. Never rise to the taunts of others."

Francis tipped his chin and folded himself back into his chair, trying to regain an even temper.

Randolph patted his shoulder. "Good man. We should talk later."

Francis nodded and his employer strode away.

after the room had cleared, leaving Francis to face his judge, the bishop put down his pen and waived Francis to a chair nearer his desk. When Francis arrived, he said, "You seem to have taken a misstep in marrying Miss Bartlett, one that will affect your career in the church because of her profession. I do not doubt that you think you have done the right thing by marrying her and that you love her. I hope her feelings are equally engaged because I believe she needs to prove she is suitable as a clergyman's wife."

"I'm sure she will do so, especially in St Paul's Parish, your grace."

"I'm not so sure staying in St Paul's is the best way forward. The scandal, you know, won't be forgotten quickly. Men like Marchmere and Travener will make sure of that."

"Their own behavior doesn't bear the light of day being shone on it."

"That's as may be, but they are titled men and as such can get away with much. A woman…an actress to boot…married to a clergyman, cannot. That is the way of this imperfect world." The bishop said wearily.

This is not going well. "But it's a world that needs changing, your grace. And Clarissa and I could be part of that change, rather than a dirty secret."

"I don't believe our world is ready for that change yet. And I must act in a manner that is appropriate for our times, while compassionate." His wide brow was furrowed and his face serious.

The lead weight in Francis's stomach expanded. Would his fears be justified? Every ounce of intuition he possessed screamed that a good result wouldn't come from this meeting.

"I shall instruct Reverend Randolph that you should be dismissed from your post as curate of St Paul's Parish. I suggest you find an appointment as far from London and the scene of your indiscretion as possible. Perhaps a position in Wales? There, your wife can prove her suitability for her role, away from the prying and judgmental folk of London."

Francis's heart shriveled to nothingness. He was to be unemployed. Exiled from his parish, from his mission work, from his city, from his family. And it would mean the end of Clarissa's dream of a career in the theatre—

If she would accompany him at all.