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Chapter Three (#u348dba5c-fc91-5e1e-b3bd-2527c409ab46)
After parting company with all of the previous day’s food and drink, and probably that of the week before as well, Ben dunked his head under the pump in the tiny backyard and spluttered as his nose and ears filled with the liquid.
He pulled his head up much too sharply for someone suffering the afflictions he did, and groped for the towel he’d plucked from the washing line on his mad dash to get rid of the contents of his stomach.
‘Here.’ The towel was placed in his hands, and he lifted the coarse material to his cheeks.
Damnation and hellfire, I know that voice.
He scrubbed his face, dropped the cloth, narrowly missed the water trough and looked up into the eyes of his wife.
‘Thank you,’ he said stiffly. Her amused expression helped not one iota to reduce his embarrassment. ‘My apologies you have to see me like this.’
‘Really?’ One elegant eyebrow lifted almost to her hairline. The wind flirted with her curls, and the hem of her skirt drifted back and forth over the dusty ground. As ever her fringe was all over the place. She looked young, and now, sadly, disgusted.
How on earth can she do that and invest it with all the scorn and disbelief she obviously has? Which, he acknowledged, he deserved.
‘I had thought it was due to your having to rest your eyes on me; you decided that to drink yourself into oblivion was a better option.’ Clarissa surveyed him steadily, and Ben was sure his face was the colour of the roses she’d carried in her bouquet the day before. How on earth could she make him feel like a scrubby schoolboy so easily?
‘I’m sorry I gave you that impression.’ Try as he might he couldn’t lift his voice. It was hard not to scuff his boots in the dirt and kick a stone. However, in the state he was in he’d probably break a window or hit his wife on the head if he did.
‘Are you? If you say so.’
His hackles rose as she dismissed his apology so cavalierly. Really his wife needed lessons in manners. And I don’t? He dismissed the thought. It was too close to the truth to be contemplated at a silly hour.
‘I’ve instructed Timothy to take your eggs away and bring you a jug of ale, and barbaric though it sounds to me, red meat. According to Renwick, your major-domo, it’s the best cure for an …’ She chuckled and he caught a glimpse of a person he’d never met before. Bright eyes, young and amused. No adoration, no disgust, just an openness he loved. ‘An affliction such as yours.’
‘Thank you,’ he said gratefully. ‘Believe me, it works.’
‘Then perhaps you should return to your breakfast.’
Somehow he was sure it was not a suggestion. Had his wife got hitherto unrevealed depths? After all, what did he know of her? A fresh-faced schoolgirl who went red whenever he saw her, a young deb who held no interest for him, and now an unwilling bride, even if he had long held a desire to get to know her better. Who does she remind me of? That question had popped in and out of his mind over several years. He never discovered the answer.
Ben held his arm out to her.
She shook her head. ‘Unlike you, I have no desire to greet a red and rare steak over the breakfast table. I thought I might check your library to see if it negates a visit to Hookham’s.’
Hookham’s? The circulating library. Why on earth does a bride on her honeymoon need to visit there? His bewilderment must have been obvious, because his bride smiled, and elaborated.
‘To choose some reading matter. I have to have something to pass the time, and embroidery and tapestry don’t hold my attention for as long as a good book.’
‘We have a library next door if you wish to labour under the misapprehension you will need something other than your husband to occupy your time.’ Lord, he sounded pompous.
She curtseyed and, without bothering to give him a reply, turned on her heels, gave him a tantalising glimpse of her ankles once more – and disappeared through the door and in the direction of the library.
Ben made his way slowly into the breakfast room. He and the lady were long overdue a talk about what was required of a new wife, a honeymoon, and a marriage. The need to find a pastime, other than pandering to his every whim, wasn’t high on the agenda.
Why on earth had he thought that once they were wed all would be fine and straightforward? With Clarissa of all people. He might have admired her since she emerged from her schooling and took her place in the ton, but he suffered no illusions about her and her feistiness. When he saw Ferdy Pendragon attack her he’d seen red and all his chivalrous qualities had come to the fore. She deserved better. Yes, things had got somewhat out of hand, and his declaration had been as much of a surprise to him as it was to her. However, he hadn’t been displeased. It was time he wed, and Clarissa was someone he liked. He ignored the tiny voice in his battered head that scoffed and niggled … only like? He should have known it wasn’t going to be plain sailing.
He began to plot. Hookham’s indeed. If she needed to read, then she could read him.
****
Clarissa wandered around the library like a child in William Hamley’s Noah’s Ark toy shop. When she was a little girl, her godmother had taken her to the shop in High Holborn and allowed her to pick two toys. She’d chosen a whip and top, and an elegant rag doll, which her half-French godmother had christened Marguerite. The whip and top were buried deep in one of the outbuildings at her father’s country home, but Marguerite was in her portmanteau and would eventually sit on her bed.
When he chooses to tell me where it is. The night before she’d been ushered into a bedchamber, and left to await his arrival. Some arrival that had been. She had ached from the number of times her hand had been shaken or she’d curtseyed, and was tired and more than a little apprehensive about the coming hours. And she knew fine well only the upper servants had greeted them. The rest of the household would be made known to her on the return from their honeymoon. She had no idea if that was the norm or not but she was pleased it had been so. There had been enough new things and people to assimilate as it was.
Clarissa cast her mind over the previous night’s activities and remembered her first sight of a naked man. Now, she admitted, it was a sight well worth seeing even if previously she hadn’t been so sure.
Her less than amorous bridegroom had fallen onto the mattress and stayed where he landed for the rest of the night. So much for being introduced to the pleasure of the marital bed. She shook her head. If that was the delight awaiting her, he could keep it. It was best not to think of it. Instead she delved into the delights of a well-stocked library, with a plethora of books to choose from. If, as it seemed, reading did not feature on His Lordship’s list of pastimes, someone had thought it worthwhile creating such a perfect room. She decided there and then that during any visit to the capital she would use the library as her own private retreat. Ben could find somewhere else to drink his brandy and bemoan his fate.
Clarissa was so engrossed in deciding whether to reread Miss Austen’s Northanger Abbey or discover the delights of Mrs Davenport’s The Hypocrite that when a strong hand descended onto her shoulder and gripped it she screamed as if a banshee had approached. She spun around and dropped both books. Straight onto a pair of bare feet.
The epithet that scorched her ears made Clarissa certain the hands belonged to a human, and hadn’t acted independently. No banshee would have such a wide and varied cuss word vocabulary, surely?
‘Woman, do you want to unman me?’ She looked into the anguished face of her husband, who actually hopped from one foot to another. What a play actor.
‘Highly unlikely unless your manhood is in your feet?’ She couldn’t help it, she let her glance slide over his crotch – did it always twitch when someone glanced at it? – before she looked at his allegedly abused digits.
‘What a performance over a little book on your toes. Mr Kean would be proud of it. The library today, Drury Lane tomorrow?’ Clarissa bent down and picked the volumes up. His soft whistle made her realise the actions stretched her gown tight over her rear. She itched to drop the books once more, with force and intention this time. And make them graze the stiffly outlined part of his body that stretched his pantaloons to the limit of their knit. Why on earth was he barefoot anyway? He’d had boots on earlier. What was wrong with house shoes like any sensible person?
She bit her lip to stop the ready retort that sprang to mind. Really, this bite-your-tongue stuff was a load of nonsense. He didn’t hold back, so why should she?
‘I thought you wished to talk, not insult me,’ Clarissa said as she put the books on the table and dusted her hands. It wouldn’t augur well to have a shouting match with her husband on the first full day of married life. ‘Your carpet needs a good clean.’
He bowed. ‘Tell your servants, my dear.’
My servants? Oh lord, I’m the lady of the house now.
She curtseyed in the same mocking way he had saluted her. ‘As you say. Did you want me for anything, my lord?’
He chuckled.
Clarissa clenched her fists as the ready colour she was cursed with heated her skin. ‘In your dreams, my lord. If … when,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘I give myself to a man it will be one who has proved himself to be worthy.’
He whistled long and loud. ‘Now did I say anything about giving yourself, my dear?’ His tone was all innocence. ‘I trust you’ve found a tome to amuse you during those few moments I cannot? For we leave for my hunting lodge within the hour.’
‘Why?’ Not that she was averse to leaving for the countryside. Clarissa was never at ease in the metropolis, and much preferred the slower pace of life in the shires. But with Ben? Alone? When he could … well, whatever. She turned her thoughts into a cough.
‘Why? Honestly?’ Gone was the hungover bridegroom, to be replaced by the man she had secretly admired from afar. ‘Clarissa, whatever the circumstances, we’re married, and need to gain a modicum of knowledge and understanding of each other. We need to learn to at least be in each other’s vicinity without sniping. For that, I rather think we need privacy. Here we are too likely to be interrupted, by all and sundry.’
Clarissa understood the truth in that. Even in the short time she’d spent in the library, the silence of the house had been disturbed by the loud peal of the doorbell several times. More than once there had been strident voices, one of which she was convinced was female, and then a definite slam of a door. It was all well and good knowing she’d upset several ladies upon her engagement; not so good to believe more than one didn’t see a wife as an impediment to anything. Clarissa might not want to be married, or a wife, but neither was she prepared to step back and let any other woman monopolise her husband. The operative words were, she thought, her husband. Hers. Perhaps he was right.
‘Then I’ll make sure I have everything I need. Does my maid know?’
‘She knows. She has packed. She will not accompany us.’
Clarissa blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No maid, no valet,’ Ben said. ‘I will play ladies maid.’
She laughed. ‘And I valet?’
‘Oh, my dear, I do hope so.’ He almost purred the words.
I asked for that. She really was going to have to think before she opened her mouth and put her foot in it.
This was Lord Theodore Bennett at his predatory best. She didn’t know whether to be amused, fascinated, or run a mile. His words and the hot look he directed at her set off those new, exciting tingles in her body once more. The man was a danger to her equilibrium. She picked the two books up from the desk and held them in front of her bosom like a shield. Why, when she was aroused, were her nipples so hard and itchy and wanting to poke through her chemise? Sadly it wasn’t something she could ask Ben. It was at times like this she missed her mama, or having someone around to ask. Oh, her godmama would tell her all she needed to know, but that, now she was wed, somehow seemed a betrayal of her marriage vows. Because surely it was one of those secrets between a man and wife? Clarissa swallowed.
‘Then I will collect my cloak and meet you in the hallway at the appropriate time.’
It was the best exit line she could manage. His chuckle followed her up the stairs to her room.
****
It was strange how someone you’d seen from afar – or that was how it seemed – never passed more than five minutes with, and never thought would look at you in any way other than through you, could be such an interesting companion. If only it was more. More what, Clarissa wasn’t prepared to imagine.
Whether Ben had given himself a stern talking to, or was simply out of his self-induced hangover and prepared to make the best of a bad job, Clarissa had no idea. However, during the long drive north to his hunting lodge in Rutlandshire, he set himself out to be the perfect host. He chatted about the countryside, the gossip circulating the ton, which didn’t involve them, and the hats worn by the tabbies at their wedding. He hid his ever-increasing yawns behind his hands, and never once crossed the line into impropriety. Eventually Clarissa held her hand up.
‘My lord, enough. I don’t need entertaining. You look as if a sleep would be beneficial. How long until we change horses?’
He glanced out of the window. Evidently he knew the route well. ‘About an hour, why?’
‘I think you should nap. You may have slept last night, but I’ll wager it wasn’t restful.’ The same went for her, but Clarissa didn’t think she’d be able to relax until she was in her own room, and her own bed. Alone. Heavens, she might sleep with her mouth open, or snore as loud as him. She might not want his advances – liar liar, may your tongue not fall out – but nor did she want his pity or, worse, his loathing. Now she wanted his silence so she could collect her thoughts.
He stared at her for long seconds. It was like being back at Miss Nunnery’s school for young ladies, where Clarissa had been thought of as a generally biddable young lady, albeit with a stubborn streak. How the two coexisted she had no idea, but evidently that was her make-up.
Finally, just as she was ready to blurt out and own up to whatever alleged misdemeanour was hers, Ben yawned once more and nodded.
‘Thank you. I admit, I am beginning to flag.’ He stretched his long, pantaloon-clad legs out across the coach and put one ankle over the other. Then, with a deep sigh, he folded his hands over his chest and closed his eyes. As far as Clarissa could tell he was asleep within seconds. If only she could be so lucky.
She averted her eyes from the interesting bulge, which sat snugly across the front of his torso. It reminded her of a cucumber she’d seen in her father’s greenhouse at their country estate. That thought made her snigger. A cucumber, indeed. In reality the bulge could, she guessed, be much more interesting. Cucumbers had never featured highly on her enjoyment list. They tasted bland at best. Clarissa forced herself to glance away and looked out of the window, at streams and trees and cattle in the fields. At this time of the year, the Great North Road out of the city was busy, and the first hour had seen them run the gauntlet of pie sellers, post boys, stagecoaches and phaetons. Now, several hours into their journey, the traffic had dwindled to a few carts, one or two solo riders, and once, the mail coach going south. Their coachman had pulled over when the yard of tin was heard, and Clarissa had marvelled at the speed at which the mail passed them. No wonder people said you needed to hold on to your hats if you travelled by post.
A particularly bumpy stretch of road made her grab on to the strap. The heavy rain of recent weeks had washed much of the surface away. That, followed by several days of sunshine, had turned the road into ruts of hardened mud. The gossip was that this stretch of road was soon to be attended to. Soon couldn’t come fast enough.
She stared doubtfully at her husband. He lay loose-limbed in a semi-upright position and swayed from side to side in time with each rolling movement of the vehicle. If they weren’t careful, he’d end up on the floor. Clarissa wasn’t sure what to do for the best. Leave him to the vagaries of the road, or try to wedge him in the corner?
One lurch, more vicious than those before, took the decision out of her hands. Ben swayed and slid across the seat in her direction. His hands found her waist and his head her lap. With a self-satisfied murmur he hooked one hand into the material covering her breasts, and settled himself, using her as a pillow.
Clarissa wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. She looked down onto the dark curls, and at his face, which looked so boyish in sleep, and her heart melted. How long had she had this tendresse for him?
Since forever it seemed, and he was oblivious.
He was her husband, so she supposed she’d better accept what crumbs she had and make the best of it. After all, knowing Ben, it wouldn’t be long before he tired of her, the country, and the bucolic life, and hightailed it back to London. The thought didn’t please her. She might have railed against the marriage, but her papa had said exactly what she herself thought. If she had to marry, then she could do a lot worse that marry Ben. Except … She sighed. She suspected what she wanted from marriage and what Ben did were poles apart. Such as him wanting to live mostly in London. That was her idea of hell. It was a situation she would need to consider carefully, weighing up all the eventualities, if she declined to accompany him.
With that thought uppermost, she wedged herself securely on the seat, held him close, and closed her eyes to think about the strange last few months.
A chuckle and warm breath blowing over her neck and cheek woke her. Something was tickling her ear.
Spiders. She struggled to release her limbs, which seemed tangled in the arachnid’s web.
‘Clary, wake up. We’re at the Swan. Come on now.’ The spider pinched her ear. It stung.
Spiders don’t pinch, they bite. They don’t talk and they would not call me Clary. She opened her eyes to look straight into the concerned ones of Ben. The normally bright grey irises were dark with what looked like desire? Surely not? It had to be mere concern over her agitation.
‘Whaa?’
‘You started to struggle and mutter about being caught.’ He winked. ‘My head was removed from the most comfortable pillow ever in no uncertain manner and you batted at me as if I were the devil incarnate.’
‘Spiders are the devil incarnate. I must have been dreaming. Spiders on a log and … oh.’ She remembered just what the log in question had been. But that was a dream, surely?
‘Sometimes in that dreamlike state between wakefulness and sleep we do things we otherwise might not,’ Ben said and laughed. ‘As I used you for my pillow. And you …’ He raised one eyebrow, and tilted his head to one side in a gesture of query.
‘And I let you,’ Clarissa said. She was sure he wasn’t alluding to that, but to where she had an uncomfortable idea her hand had slipped. ‘Ah.’ She’d never been more thankful to see a carriage door open and a liveried servant waiting to help her descend onto the inn’s forecourt.
‘Ah? Ah, you mean saved by the servant. I will give you that this time.’ Ben followed her out of the vehicle, and took her arm. ‘Let’s eat.’
Damn him. Does he always have to have the last word?
****
Ben watched the manner in which his wife took such dainty mouthfuls of food, and to his chagrin imagined her lips and teeth around him. It was enough for him to need to adjust himself underneath his clothing. Why did it happen to him? Only once in his life had he acted with chivalry, and without any thought to what the consequences could be, and the result was he was leg-shackled. To someone who insisted she had no interest in him. Ben thought there was truly no justice. When he had come across Pendragon and Clarissa, his blood had boiled. How dare the man touch her? Deep in the depths of his mind, he was, he admitted, ashamed that his first thought had been ‘How dare he touch her when I dare not?’, followed by chivalry, with no thought of how perhaps a true rake would have bowed and left them to it.
Or would one? Because surely the first rule of a rake was ‘willing women only’. Whatever, Ben was uneasily aware that his first ever chivalrous gesture hadn’t quite turned out the way he thought. It irritated him. He’d given up his way of life, let himself be seen as a cad who had, as many thought, reluctantly saved the lady’s reputation. Although he’d wager no one thought he’d completely change his ways as he intended.
If my lady lets me. My lady? Not a hope at the moment. Nevertheless, he intended to do what he could to alter that state of affairs.
Meanwhile, as he watched the totally innocent, but wholly erotic way she ate her food, Ben accepted he was smitten. It did not sit comfortably. Married men did not become enamoured of their wives. They did their duty, and went their own way.
Why?
Meanwhile, Clarissa finished her repast, and wiped her lips with her napkin. Ben swallowed. His mouth was dry and his stomach hollow. Even that little thing had his body on high alert.
A clatter, a crash and the sound of people running across the cobbles outside brought his attention away from his wife. He got to his feet and strode to the window. Outside the road was clear. A couple of urchins ran along the dusty verge towards where the commotion seemed to come from. The inn’s yard.
‘What?’ Clarissa had come up behind him, and stood on tiptoe to try and see past his body. ‘What’s happened?’ Her soft hand as she held on to his shoulder to steady herself burned through his coat and imprinted its shape on his skin. A delicate scent teased his nostrils, and Ben realised it was that elusive something he’d been chasing ever since he woke up.
‘What is your perfume?’ he asked abruptly, and could have kicked himself. He must remember this was his wife not some demi-monde who had no need of fine words.
Luckily, he thought, Clarissa seemed not to notice his tone, or she chose to ignore it. ‘Perfume? I don’t have any … oh, you mean my soap? ’Tis made by Mr Pears. It reminds me of my garden at my papa’s house. It’s one thing that makes my stay in the capital semi-acceptable. Oh, I meant to say, how lovely the garden at your town house is. You must let the staff know they can use it.’
Ben was amazed. Here they were, speaking together like sensible, non-antagonistic people and having a proper conversation. He made a note to find out more about a soap that smelt of sunlight and long summer evenings in the garden. He recollected the rest of her statement.
‘All the gardens were my mama’s favourites when she was alive.’ Stupid. After all, how could they be if she were dead? ‘She would have said exactly the same with regard to the staff. I’ll make a note to let them know.’ He experienced the usual sharp pang of loss that hit him whenever he thought of his long-gone mama. She had passed when he was at Eton, and Ben still experienced the loss, as if it were the day before. ‘I feel they may be neglected somewhat. I’m sure she – I – would be happy for your input.’
Her sigh stirred the hairs on his neck.
‘You don’t like the idea?’ He’d thought she’d be pleased. Truly the way a woman’s mind worked could be a mystery. For one fleeting moment Ben had a vision of his last mistress. Her mind worked in one way only – calculating what was in it for her. He had parted company with the fair lady when her demands began to be inappropriate. Right from the start he’d told her it was a temporary liaison and, whatever she’d thought, he’d had no intention of altering the status quo. And now he was married? Ben had an uneasy feeling life might not be the same, even though he thought he and his wife had come to an understanding.
