The Secretary (21 page)

“No,” he replied as the carriage rolled down the lane and out of the park, “We will set a more...leisurely pace. After all, there are many inns with very comfortable beds along the way.”

She glanced out the window. “You know we can’t, Anders,” she said. “We certainly can’t share a room at an inn, not with me dressed as a man.”

“Of course,” he murmured, merely to indulge her. He had every intention of sharing her bed that night, and the next. It was a long journey back to London, and he meant to use every moment of it wisely.

By the time the carriage clattered into the dark inn-yard in Amesbury, Clarissa was sore and exhausted. She had finished reading
Iphigenia
out loud to Anders by noon, and when she had closed the book he had blinked a few times.

“What a strange tale,” he said.

“How so?” She had thought it a rather ordinary Greek story.

“Well, first of all, how could Iphigenia not recognize her own brother? It hasn’t been that long since she saw him. And how did Orestes fail to know that she was his sister? It seems to me that the whole plot hinges on their inadequate memories.”

She looked down at the book. “It does, rather. But I still enjoyed it. And it has a happy ending.”

He shrugged.

They spent the rest of the day in relative silence. Anders spent much of the time looking over the papers Jensen had prepared for him, occasionally passing one across the carriage to her for her inspection. Clarissa was astounded by the revenues the estate brought in. It was a little overwhelming to think that he trusted her to help him manage so much important business. But it was gratifying as well.

When at last they reached Amesbury, it was evening, and she longed for nothing more than a hot bath and a soft bed. They agreed that they would dine in Anders’s chamber after they had both washed and changed, and then they parted.

The inn seemed to be a model of efficiency. It was not long before a hot bath was prepared, and when the maid had gone Clarissa slipped gratefully into the warm water, every muscle in her body crying out. It had been a grueling week, she thought. Between the breakneck carriage ride to Somerset, being on a horse for the first time in years, and now another day of traveling over less than ideal roads, she was beginning to feel closer to fifty-four than twenty-four.

She closed her eyes and allowed the water to wash away her aches. She did not notice when the door opened and closed—she was quite near to falling asleep. But when Anders pressed a soft kiss to her brow, she opened her eyes and smiled up at him, too tired even to feel self-conscious at being seen in the bath.

“Go back to sleep,” he said.

“Mmm. The water’s getting cold anyway,” she replied, holding out her hand for a towel. He handed one to her. “You know,” she said, “as much as Lord Sidney complains about having to discuss it in the Lords, there might be something to allocating those funds for repairing the turnpike roads. I feel black and blue all over.”

As she stood and wrapped herself in the towel, Anders dropped into the chair in the corner and watched her. “Are you sure you’re not sore for a different reason?” he asked.

She flushed. “Libertine.”

“I believe,” he said, rising from the chair and crossing to her, “it takes two to behave wantonly enough to earn that epithet.” He took the corners of her towel in his hands and used it to pull her closer.

“Then I suppose we are both shameless libertines,” she said, feeling a little foolish standing there in nothing but her towel when he was fully dressed. She reached up and tugged at his cravat. “You have too many clothes on.”

“Perhaps you can help me remedy the situation,” he said, and he dropped his mouth to hers, dropping the towel at the same time.

Instantly Clarissa was on fire. The feel of his coat and shirt as her body pressed against him was agony. She reached for his cravat again as his tongue delved deep into her mouth. When she had it loose, she slid her hands inside his coat and pushed it off his shoulders. He let it fall. Her fingers found the buttons of his waistcoat and began working them, and in short order the garment joined his coat on the floor. She pulled his shirt free of his trousers and broke their kiss so that she could tug it up over his head, though he had to help her because she was not tall enough to pull it off. Then his hands were slipping back around her waist and he pulled her against him so that she could feel his arousal.

“No,” she whispered, and she put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. He looked rather bemused until she said, “I want to be in the lead this time.”

He smiled, his dark hair falling over his face as he regarded her. “Very well,” he said, his voice very low and breathy.

She kept her hands on his muscled chest and pushed him gently back until his legs met the bed and then she shoved him down onto the coverlet. She climbed atop him, straddling his legs, and leaned down to kiss him, brushing his hair back from his face as she did so. She trailed kisses down his chin and neck and over his chest. When her lips neared his nipple she heard his breath catch in his throat, and she knew what she wanted. Delicately, looking up into his eyes, she stuck out her tongue and licked.

“Oh, God,” he moaned. She blew softly and then bit him gently. He whispered her name. She moved lower, kissing over the taut muscles of his stomach until she reached the waist of his trousers. She did not fumble with the buttons this time, but when she had them free, she paused and bent down to tug his boots off. Then she slid back up, reaching to pull at his trousers until he sprung free.

Clarissa stared at him for a moment, not quite believing what she was about to do. But when she looked up and saw him watching her, she knew that he wanted it. She leaned forward and kissed the tip of his erection and then licked him from base to tip, her fingers trailing her tongue.

“Clarissa,” he hissed. “I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

She smiled up at him. “Neither can I,” she said, and she settled herself atop him, taking him inside her. The friction was delicious. Slowly, she began to rock, finding the rhythm that made both their hearts beat faster. He put his hands on her hips as she rode him, sliding his hands up to her breasts and then back down her ribcage. She continued to rock until she was gasping for breath, and then the pleasure broke loose inside her and she bit her lip to keep from screaming. He grasped her hips and thrust up into her, hard and fast, until she felt him spill inside her.  Then she collapsed onto his chest, his arms coming up to cradle her against him.

When they had both caught their breath, he said, “I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up an appetite now.”

She laughed. “Me too.”

When they had both dressed again, they went into Anders’s chamber, where supper had been laid out. They fell onto the food with gusto, devouring every last bite of the hearty fare. When they had eaten their fill, they relaxed back into their chairs.

“Do you think...” Clarissa began, but then she trailed off, looking sheepish.

“What is it?”

“Do you suppose we might be able to visit Stonehenge tomorrow? It’s no more than a mile out of our way, and I’ve longed to see it ever since I read Stukeley’s treatise when I was a girl.”

Anders knew he was staring at her. “I don’t see why not, but truly—you read Stukeley when you were a
child
?” He had not been able to wrap his head around the work of the noted antiquarian until he was at Cambridge.

She shrugged. “I read anything that was put before me, Anders. It wasn’t as though there was much else to do, and my father forbade me nothing.”

He chuckled at that. “Of course not,” he said. He was beginning to understand her a little better. She was not really a bluestocking, but a girl who, without other children to befriend, had found childhood companions on her father’s bookshelves. Still, he wondered at the odd things he was learning about her formative years. “Did you never have a governess when you were a girl?”

She shook her head. “We had a housekeeper who also did the cooking. I called her Nanny Bab, and she was the closest thing I ever had to a governess. She tried to teach me to sew and embroider and do the things refined ladies did, but I’m afraid she failed miserably. I was not interested, and Papa refused to force me. Still, I was never unhappy with my lot. Cynthia had a governess when she grew older, and I never envied her the hours she spent over an embroidery hoop. Her father was determined that she would do well in society one day. In fact, he and my father had a great row about it once.”

“Did they?”

She nodded. “They were quite close once, I think. But when I was about nine or ten, my father began to say that he didn’t approve of the way Cynthia was being raised. I think he confronted her father about it, because there was a very loud argument in his study one evening, and after that I didn’t see him for nearly a year, though Cynthia and I still played together.”

“Your father subscribed to the ideas of Mary Wollstonecraft, then?”

“Do you know any true abolitionists who do not also believe that women must have rights equal to those of men?”

Anders felt a little out of his depth. Suddenly a conversation about her childhood had evolved into a discussion of the great women thinkers. “I suppose not,” he admitted.

“My father wanted me to be a liberated woman,” she said proudly, “and I think he wanted the same for Cynthia, though she was not his child. I think he looked on her as a beloved niece, for Roger Endersby with like a brother to him.”

“A liberated woman?” Anders asked.

She blushed. “And here I am, liberated as the day is long. But soon I will be a married woman, and my liberation will be at its end.”

“I hope not,” he said, and her eyes grew a little wider. “I hope you will always feel comfortable sharing your thoughts and opinions with me. It is what I treasure most about you—I would hate for you to become a simpering society wife.”

She rose from her chair and came over to him. There were tears at the corners of her eyes. “That may be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” she said, and she kissed him gently, her hands resting on the arms of his chair.

“I will have to brush up on my Wollstonecraft,” he murmured against her lips.

He did not want to let her return to her room after supper, but she insisted that they could not spend the night together. “You’ll just have to dream of me,” she giggled as she left.

He stared after her. He would be lucky to sleep at all.

“Listen to this, Anders,” Clarissa said, not looking up from the pamphlet she had somehow managed to acquire in Amesbury before they had gotten into the carriage that morning, “‘The site is an ancient pagan holy ground, constructed for mythical purposes. Geoffrey of Monmouth discovered convincing evidence that the stones were transported from Africa to Ireland by giants and then relocated by the Merlin himself.’” She scoffed. “Geoffrey of Monmouth indeed. What rubbish.”

Anders stared after her as she tromped up the hill towards the stones. Ever since the carriage had left the inn-yard that morning she had talked of nothing but Stonehenge. He had seen her excited before, about abolition and children’s rights and Irish independence, but this was something different.

He reminded himself that she was an academic, that she was naturally curious, and that this was what he so adored about her. But he also couldn’t help but find her enthusiasm for what seemed to him to be a rather unremarkable circle of rocks rather amusing.

He trailed after her up the hill. By the time he caught up, she was standing in the center of the circle, a look of fascination on her face. “Has anyone told you that you’re quite lovely when you’re analyzing historical sites?” he asked, coming to stand behind her.

She frowned at him. “Anders, someone will see you.”

He looked around. Stonehenge sat atop a low hill, and the countryside all around was visible for miles. There was no one in sight—not even a herd of sheep.

Clarissa had turned her attention back to her pamphlet. He took another step closer so that her back was pressed right against him and rested his chin atop her head. He could feel the pins in her hair through her wig.

“So Uther Pendragon is buried here?” he asked, reading along with her.

“Apparently. Also Constantine III. I wonder how they came up with this rot. It’s laughable.” She closed the pamphlet and stuffed it into her coat pocket. “All this tripe when the purpose of this place is clear as day.”

“Is it really?” he asked. She pulled away and turned to face him.

“Close your eyes,” she said. He stared at her. “Please, Anders,” she said. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on her face. “If you close them, I’ll let you kiss me,” she offered. He shut his eyes at once. “Thank you. Now listen.”

He listened. He heard nothing but the wind rustling through the trees and the faraway cry of a bird. “What am I listening for?” he asked after a few moments’ silence.

“Don’t you feel that?” she asked. He opened his eyes. She had a strange look of rapturous elation on her face. When he said nothing, she added rather feebly, “It’s magic. Well, not exactly magic, but it’s that feeling that we aren’t alone. The millions of people who came before us and the millions who will come after leave something behind, a small piece of themselves for us to see and touch. Don’t you ever feel that way when you sit in the Lords? Like you’re doing something that will touch the lives of everyone who comes after you?”

He blinked at her. Who
was
this woman? “What have you done with my rational, sane Clarissa?” he asked.

She grinned. “Just because I read Mary Wollstonecraft, I’m not allowed to believe in a little magic? That’s why you couldn’t enjoy
Iphigenia
. It was the magic—the power of Athena that made her forget her brother, only to find him again. Can’t you allow for a little touch of the divine in our world?”

“If you give me that kiss you promised me, I’ll believe in anything you want.”

She smiled and stepped into his embrace, turning her face up for a kiss. As his lips brushed against hers, he felt the now-familiar thrill that swept from his toes to his fingertips every time he touched her. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps there was such a thing as magic.