Bound By Temptation (4 page)

A glance across a church fete.

The first innocent kiss.

A second not so innocent kiss.

Refusing him.

Giving in.

Disbelief that he wanted to marry her.

Marriage.

Perfect days.

Angry days. Fighting. Making up.

Fighting, again.

Never feeling she was quite enough.

She opened her eyes and stared at the heavy paned window over the front door. It was amazing how living a life determined not to have any regrets, any missed opportunities, could lead to so many doubts. She would not think further. If she let her mind follow this track, it would lead to that final tragedy, and that could not be borne.

With firm determination, she turned up the stairs. She would read Lady Smythe-Burke’s letter
again. Plum versus apricot as the prime choice for curtains might not be one of the more important questions in life, but it could certainly be mind-numbing.

“Drat.” It was a mild curse and Clara said it without force. She’d been trying to write this letter since this time yesterday and still had made no progress. The tip of the pen ran over the paper smoothly and left no puddle of ink behind. The temptation to press a little too hard, to write a little too slowly was great. There could be much pleasure in destruction—even of something as simple as a sheet of paper.

She dipped the pen into the ink and left it there, folding her hands neatly in her lap. They still trembled. When she’d arrived home, she had blamed the tremors on the cold. Yesterday, she had blamed them on the memories of Michael.

Now she needed to face the truth.

She was shaken by the lack of memory of that night, and the deep sense of violation that filled her. She wished she believed it was as simple as having indulged too much, from having moved from ale to whiskey and downing it with equal speed.

Unfortunately, she’d downed more than her share of whiskey in the past, and she knew what the next morning felt like. There was pain and there was blur—a friend might remark on something Clara could remember only in the faintest outline, but it was there. It was in her mind, even when she couldn’t remember the specifics—it was there.

Now there was nothing.

She remembered dinner, and the discomfort of laying to rest Mr. Green’s hopes, and Mr. Johnson’s visit afterward. She even remembered Mr. Johnson saying he was off to The Dog and Ferret. He’d been shocked at her desire to accompany him, but whether it was the loneliness in her eyes or fear of offending her, he’d said nothing when she’d sent the maid for her cloak, and they’d walked to the tavern in comfortable silence, his horse trailing behind.

Robert was supposed to be stopping by the tavern later in the evening. She’d planned on traveling back with him—which had to mean she wouldn’t have overindulged. The whole point of her stay in Aylsham was to prove she could be a proper lady. She would not have flaunted extreme impropriety in his face.

Oh, she knew that going to The Dog was improper in itself, but it was a harmless thing. Robert would have understood—and Lord Darnell would never have heard.

She clenched her hands tighter. She’d arrived at the tavern for a drink expecting that Robert would drive her home after he tilted a tankard or two himself and finished his business with Mr. Johnson.

She hadn’t expected to play cards. That had just happened in the way these things do. Someone called to her, she said, “Why not,” and that was that.

Only it wasn’t. Why did the rest of it vanish?

Why could she not remember the man? She really should have learned his name before she left. It seemed too much like a novel—abducted by the tall, dark stranger.

He’d been the hero from a book, not a real man at all. A real abductor would be short with bad skin and smell of cheese. She snorted at the thought.

No, this man with those near black eyes and strong jaw had resembled a footman. She might have said an actor or a soldier, but the majority of footmen were better-looking than the men who trod the boards at Drury Lane or fought for His Majesty. The man might even have been qualified to be one of Lady Smythe-Burke’s footmen. The lady might be old, but that didn’t interfere with her eyesight, and she’d be the first to say so.

Her hands relaxed as she thought of the stranger again. She’d felt safe when she was with him. It was a strange thing to say, but true nonetheless. When he’d held her wrist to untie the bonds, it had been with the gentleness he’d hold a newly hatched chick. His grasp had been so warm and safe—no,
safe
was not the correct term, those tingles of heat that had run through her belly at his touch were not safe.

This was not productive. She should not be dreaming of a man who thought she’d stolen his watch. She couldn’t even imagine where he’d gotten that idea. Why hadn’t she asked him when she had the chance? Well, it was too late now. She’d probably never see him again.

Her fascination was nothing more than relief from the monotony of country life.

She stood and paced once across the room. The rain continued to pour down heavily as it had since the previous morning, pounding against the windows with every sudden gust of wind. It was not a day for marching off her frustrations in the fields.

Needlework? It would not hold her, and she didn’t care for it anyway.

Correspondence? It had already failed her.

A book? Perhaps one of those novels filled with impossible heroes? No, it would only make her think of
him
more.

Maybe she should sort through her wardrobe? Given the stranger’s glance at her dress’s faded seams, it was clear that not all her gowns were up to par even for the country. Her maid, Molly, would help, and that would lead to lively conversation and gossip. It was a distinct poss—

“Clara, we have a caller. Didn’t you hear the knocker?” Robert poked his head around the door.

“A caller? In this?” She turned her head to the window as another gust sent a splatter of rain hard against the pane.

Robert chuckled. “I know it’s difficult to believe, but apparently some gentleman from Town is stuck at The Dog. The roads out of town are flooded and you know how bad the mud can get.”

“So he decides to come visiting?” A sense of cold dread was building low in her stomach. Had she
been wrong about the man? Was there more to her forgotten night than imbibing too much and a misunderstanding over a watch?

But perhaps it wasn’t he, and everything was as simple as it seemed.

Robert entered the room and walked to her desk, tapping his finger against the top of her pen. “He claims he was without entertainment at The Dog and asked who lived in the area. When he heard your name, he decided that he must visit.” Robert smiled broadly at Clara and then continued, “Apparently you’re friends with his sister and he’s heard only the best about me.”

“His sister? I can’t think who he could possibly be.” Clara ran through names in her mind, trying to tie all the pieces into some type of order, but drew a blank. She shook out skirts with some force, brushing at imaginary wrinkles. “I imagine that the beds at The Dog are lumpy and damp and he hopes we will extend our hospitality for the length of his forced stay. It will probably turn out that he is mistaken in the acquaintance, but we will be forced to house him until the rains relent if not longer.”

Robert grinned like a schoolboy. “The weather is making you grumpy, although I am sure you are correct. If we’re not careful he’ll still be here next Christmas.”

“Given that it’s only just March, I am afraid to even imagine such a happening.”

“As long as he’s not like Uncle Timothy sending all the upstairs maids running and squealing.”

Clara rubbed her hip. “I can assure you nobody pinches like Uncle Timothy.” She stood. “Now I suppose we should greet our guest. Maybe he does desire company for a single afternoon. He must be used to muddy roads to be traveling at all during this season.”

“And he probably has pressing business to be about at all.” Robert clearly desired reassurance.

“I would have thought you would welcome company.” Clara walked to the door. “You’re always complaining of how dull it is here.”

Robert turned and preceded her down the stairs. “You know I just say that. I am much happier here than in Town. It is one of the things that makes Jennie so perfect for me.”

Clara placed a hand upon his sleeve. “I will do whatever I can to help. I would speak to Lord Darnell, but I fear I would not help your cause.”

Robert turned, his position on the stairs forcing him to look up at her. “I know you would and I appreciate the effort you have made in coming home. I do understand that it is difficult for you to be here.”

“Not as difficult as I feared.”

“I am glad to hear it. I know I don’t always understand what drives you to do the things you do, but I know you want only the best for me. It has not always been easy allowing you your freedom.”

Allow? Clara swallowed her reply. Michael had left her plenty of funds of her own, and she resented the implication that her life was anybody’s responsibility save her own.

There was a cough from the bottom of the stairs.

It was
he
.

She had known that it would be, and still it seemed impossible. He seemed impossible.

Why was he here? What did he want?

His hair looked nearly black in the dim light, all its fire dimmed by the water that slicked it back. He stared up at her with no more expression than a three-day-old fish. She could feel his appraisal raking over her. She knew she was pale after the previous nights, and under his gaze she felt a hundred years old. She’d noticed the first fine lines about her eyes in the last months, and now she feared that anxiety had deepened them to crevices.

It was nonsense. Her own mirror had assured her that, other than lack of color, she was little changed, but still he made her feel—Why was she allowing him to make her feel anything?

It would be his turn to explain himself. It was too much of a coincidence that he turned up at her home after the events of that night.

She tapped a finger once.

She was in control of herself. No man allowed her anything, hadn’t she just been thinking that when he appeared?

“Lord Westington, I must presume.” His voice was lower than she had remembered. He addressed Robert, but his eyes never left her. “Forgive my ungracious behavior in arriving at your home without invitation.”

“Not ungracious at all.” Robert strode down the steps and extended his hand. “I assure you that if we’d known any relation of one of Lady Westington’s friends was in Aylsham we’d have sent a rider to The Dog and Ferret insisting you stay with us. I fear that it is we who have been ungracious in our ignorance.”

She was going to murder her stepson. One moment he was alone with her protesting any desire to have a guest, and now he extended the invitation without any consultation or consideration of her thoughts. Granted, he couldn’t know of her history with said gentleman, but—And she still didn’t know said gentleman’s name. How many times could introductions pass by so sloppily?

Enough was enough. It was time she got answers to her questions. “As my stepson seems a little lackadaisical in his introductions, I fear I must depend upon myself, Lady Westington.” She nodded, praying he would not give away the events of
that
evening—but why else could he be here, save to torture her? Damn, why was he here? Did he mean to tell Robert the whole sorry saga and demand restitution? She prepared herself for the worst.

“You need no introduction. I would know you anywhere from the many descriptions I have received.” He reached out and took her hand, bringing it to his lips, his hot breath warming her chilled fingers. For a moment she thought he would presume upon the evening’s intimacy and actually kiss
her hand, but he held back his lips a fraction above her skin, pausing for a moment, his eyes looking up at her. He knew exactly what she wondered, what she feared.

“You must tell me what you have heard. I had not believed my reputation to be so widely spread.” She dared him on, unable to hold herself back. Running from her own fears had never been her way.

Robert coughed loudly. She hoped he was regretting his impulsive invitation.

“My sister has described both your beauty and your spirited nature.”

“And what would you know of my nature on such brief acquaintance?” What was she doing? The words left her mouth before she could stop them. Was she daring him to mention the previous evening?

“I merely saw your expression at Lord Westington’s comments. I can assure you that my sister has gifted me with many such expressions when I spoke of
allowing
her to do anything. I might disagree with her sentiment, but I do recognize it.” Gads, the man sounded so pompous. Somehow he made her feel like a scolded schoolgirl.

“Ah, the mysterious sister. Lord Westington mentioned she was a dear friend. I must admit I cannot place her. Or perhaps it is that I cannot place you.”

“My sister and I have not shared a name for many years, since before her first marriage, so it may be that you simply have not made the connection.”

“It would be hard to do so when you have not gifted me with your name.” Clara smiled at him sweetly and then swept past him into the parlor.

“Have I not? I find that hard to believe.” She couldn’t see his face, but she imagined it from his tone—nose in the air, lips tightly pressed, but eyes letting her know that he damn well hadn’t told her his name and wasn’t sure he was going to.

Robert caught something of the tension between them and spoke up. “Don’t mind Lady Westington. She is merely having a bit of fun. It’s only been a matter of moments, and as Clara said, the fault is mine for not taking the responsibilities of a host seriously.”

“I am sure Lady Westington meant no such thing.” The man sounded even more pompous than before.

“I can speak for myself.” Her smile could only be described as saccharine.

“No disrespect intended, my lady,” the man said. It seemed unbelievable that she still didn’t know his name.

Robert merely rolled his eyes. She should have walloped him when he was younger.