The Scandalous Proposal of Lord Bennett, page 8
The house – she couldn’t think of it as a lodge – was definitely of the finest quality both in design and furnishings. Even so it exuded warmth, even from the hallway, and Clarissa fell in love with it.
She shivered as a large raindrop slid from her hair and down the back of her dress. ‘I’d like to stay alive long enough to spend time discovering what the rest of the establishment looks like.’
‘Then if my first method of warming up doesn’t appeal to you – yet – we could be mundane and use towels. First let me help you out of your cloak.’
‘I’m not wearing a cloak,’ Clarissa said and he laughed.
‘Then let me help you out of anything damp and clammy.’ He rolled his eyes, and twirled an imaginary moustache. ‘Said in a suitably sleazy way. Seriously, my dear, as we have only a cook who will come in and attend to our meals and servants merely when I ask for them, I am happy to play ladies maid. Perhaps you will play valet for me? These pantaloons are of a tight knit.’
His continued good humour was something else to think about. Clarissa shook her head. ‘Good try, my lord, and no. As I said to you on more than one occasion, I’m not a plaything or someone to pick up and discard at a whim. Now perhaps you could show me to my bedchamber, and I can get out of this damp gown.’ She walked to the bottom of the stairs and a thought stopped her mid stride. He’d had to help her into her dress, so equally he’d need to help her out of it. She turned to see Ben still standing where she had left him.
‘My lord? It seems I may need your help after all.’ The words stuck in her throat, and she forced herself to speak insouciantly, and hope he didn’t see the way her pulse beat fast, and her hands shook a little. ‘My gown.’
‘I wondered when you’d remember that.’ He didn’t gloat, and Clarissa liked him for that. ‘I’ll be up directly, and bring your portmanteau with me. It’s the door at the end of the corridor. The room not the portmanteau.’
Clarissa stared at him, rethought his words and sniggered. ‘Thank goodness for that.’ She made her way slowly up the stairs as she heard the front door open. A gust of wind rattled the windowpane, and Clarissa shivered. If the weather stayed as wet and chilly as this, she could only hope her maid had packed some warm clothes or she’d be freezing. April showers in May seemed a little harsh. Oh, she hadn’t expected sunshine and the need for a parasol, but this was beyond all expectations.
The room she entered was little more than a dressing room, but it delighted her. There was a fireplace, with kindling set and ready to be lit. She had just used the tinderbox to set a light to it, and watched the fire take hold, when a door banged. Clarissa stood up, dusted her hands together and held them towards the heat before she heard the stairs creak. Somewhat reluctantly she left the warmth of the fire’s surrounds and walked swiftly towards the door to hold it wide open, just as Ben walked through the gap. His hair was almost black, and plastered tight to his skull, and his once immaculate coat, dark and dull looking. Sodden wool did not appear elegant. Regrettably, it also smelt of wet dog, and Clarissa wrinkled her nose.
‘Thank you.’ He grunted the words as he hefted her portmanteau onto a long wooden stand. ‘There. It’s raining cats and dogs outside. If it carries on like this we’ll be wading to the village.’
‘Or building an ark?’ She looked out of the window, to see nothing but heavy rain and the outline of the walls around the garden. It was so dark and gloomy it could easily be late at night not mid afternoon.
‘I wanted to show you around the area. So that we may get to know each other in a manner we have as yet had no opportunity for.’
He leaned against the window frame, so close to Clarissa that his male scent mixed with that of the wet cloth of his coat. She preferred the former, and wished she could block out the latter.
‘It shouldn’t be raining like this now. It’s not the season.’ He sounded so like a child deprived of his top and whip that Clarissa bit her lip to stop herself laughing. It seemed all males reverted to childhood when thwarted.
‘In England surely rain can come in any season? That, according to my teacher, Miss Chartwell, is why it’s so pretty and green.’
‘Not the point.’ However, his lips twitched. ‘I’m beginning to dislike the all-knowing Miss Chartwell.’
Clarissa stopped herself from sighing. Definitely the sulky schoolboy.
‘She would probably not be enamoured of you either. Ah well, I’m sure we’ll find something to pass our time.’
Ben heaved himself up from the window frame and straightened his wet coat. Then he winked. ‘Oh yes.’
Argh, not the right thing to say.
‘Do not look at me like that, my lord. I am not the entertainment. I was thinking of chess, or, or …’ Her voice trailed off as he ran his still-damp finger over her cheek and traced a line down her neck to the lacy edge of her gown. He stroked her just where material and skin met.
‘What do you think you are you doing?’ she asked somewhat breathlessly, as those damnable stings and tingles skittered through her once more. Try as she might she could no longer liken them to nettle rash or a bee sting. They hinted at so much more … more what she hadn’t a clue.
‘Showing you how my touch isn’t to be flinched at.’
‘You mean your other ladies like to be mauled?’ Clarissa said, as her nether regions shook. Think of those women who boast about his prowess. I am not going to stand in a line for his attention. She concentrated on staying upright and not sagging as she could have done all so easily.
‘Oh, my dear, you do have a lot to learn.’ He slid his finger under the neckline of her gown and stroked the soft swell of her breast. ‘If you think this is mauling, think again.’
‘Perhaps. But a pupil is only good as her teacher,’ Clarissa said, desperately. ‘And of course she has to want to learn. I do not.’
‘Ah well.’ He removed his hand and stood upright. ‘’Tis a pity. For I have been told on many occasion’ – he bent his head and kissed her cheek – ‘that I am a very good teacher.’
Before she had a chance to answer him, or analyse the way she swayed towards him, he pulled back. Then spun her around, unlaced her gown, patted her bottom in the most familiar way, and she was sure squeezed the flesh, just a little, before sauntering out of the room, whistling as he went.
Did he pinch my rear? She rubbed her hand over the area where Ben’s hand had definitely lingered. ‘Hmm.’ It was getting harder and harder to remember she wasn’t going to give in to whatever it was he thought she should accept. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to discover all the secrets that married women sighed – or scowled – over, depending on their disposition. She did. However, Clarissa knew enough about herself – and her temper – to know she would never settle for second best or sharing. As married men were renowned for sharing, perhaps it was best not to discover those secrets. After all, surely she couldn’t miss what she’d never had, could she? She had a lot to think about.
Including the list of women said to have graced my husband’s bed – or he theirs. Do husbands not mind being cuckolded, as they themselves cuckold others?
Clarissa wriggled out of her damp gown and petticoats and wrapped a soft robe around herself. She had noticed it on top of the coverlet on the overlarge four-poster bed, and assumed it was there to be worn. It was a pity it was thin and shimmery and left very little to the imagination. However, as only she would see herself in it, it didn’t matter.
With a heartfelt sigh, Clarissa opened her portmanteau and rummaged around, undoing all the careful packing of her maid, until she found the gown she wanted. The contents of the case seemed somewhat sparse. Had Christine forgotten what might be needed? Where were her jewelled hairclip, and her paisley shawl? Not to mention her journal, and her tapestry. So many of her peers professed to dislike stitchery, but Clarissa thought it was probably the only feminine pastime she truly enjoyed. It was soothing, and the end result useful.
Her thoughts were pensive as she shook the folds out of the gown and hung it over the back of a chair. Just how did one go about being a wife, anyway? Especially one who didn’t want the hurly-burly of the capital, and hated the thought of having to conduct her marriage under the nosy eyes of the ton? It seemed complicated in the extreme.
However, she was nothing if not realistic and knew fine well she had no option but to get on with her husband.
Get on does not mean he gets in. She giggled at her wayward and, she guessed, impolite thoughts. Sometimes, she decided, she wasn’t much of a lady, more a hoyden. But oh, how she wished she’d had more time to peruse the leaflets that had circulated about under the bedclothes at school.
A thump on her bedroom door made her jump. Heavens, she’d been dithering for ages.
‘H … hello?’ She stammered the words as she wondered who was there, before she mentally shook herself. It had to be her husband, who else? Clarissa checked she was decently covered – or as decent as the robe allowed. There was no point in giving Ben the idea that she was about to be more obliging than she actually intended. ‘Come in.’
‘I have arranged for a meal to be ready in thirty minutes.’ Ben opened the door and strolled in. He’d changed into breeches and a loose shirt, and seemed totally at ease. He looked her up and down thoroughly, and the glint in his eyes showed he liked what he saw.
Clarissa clutched the robe around her tightly, before she realised that, by doing so, somewhat more of her was revealed as the thin fabric enhanced the outline of her body. ‘Yes, fine, then please excuse me while I dress.’ She mentally chastised herself for wasting time, but complimented herself on her even tone.
‘Perhaps I should stay?’ He sat down on a spindle-backed chair next to the window seat and splayed his legs in a typically overtly masculine stance. Clarissa averted her eyes.
‘Why?’ She mistrusted the wicked gleam in his eyes.
‘To play ladies maid.’
‘No need.’ Clarissa congratulated herself on having the foresight to choose a gown that laced up the front. ‘I can manage.’
‘Nevertheless, I’d be remiss not to stay, just in case.’ He didn’t say in case of what. ‘I’ll wait and escort you to dinner.’
She mistrusted that glint, but two could play his game. With a mental prayer that she’d be able to carry total insouciance off, Clarissa held the two sides of the robe together, curtseyed deeply and looked up at him. ‘Of course, my lord. I will be but one moment.’ She picked up her dress, and disappeared into her bathing chamber, shutting the door firmly behind her. His laughter was heard easily through the wooden panels.
Damn him.
****
Ben resigned himself to a long wait. He knew to his cost how long a lady could take at her toilette, especially one who was annoyed with her escort. Therefore he was pleasantly surprised when after only twenty minutes or so the door from the bathing chamber bounced back on its hinges and his wife reappeared.
For someone who always professed not to care what she thought of her appearance, she seemed to have taken the utmost care and to his eyes she was stunning. To some, her not over curvy figure might be not to their liking. To him, it was perfect. Elegant, sleek, like a racehorse, and he ached to discover every fine line of it. Her hair was dressed in a loose chignon, and the pale-green gown, which enhanced the gentle swell of her breasts, was a perfect foil for her reddish-brown tresses, and that silly, intriguing fringe. Conker. Ben decided the beautiful rich colour of the fruit of the horse chestnut tree was the only way to describe it. He wanted to roll his eyes. Lud, he was getting maudlin.
‘Do I have a spot on my nose? A rip in my gown?’ Clarissa asked him in a puzzled voice. ‘Or have you agreed we should not match, and you are about to tell me so? There is no need, my lord. I also agree. Arrange for me to leave forthwith, and we can be happy.’ She picked a gauzy shawl up from a side table and arranged it over her arms. ‘After I have eaten, of course.’
‘What?’ What was Clarissa wittering on about? He replayed her words in his mind. ‘Don’t be so stupid wom … oufft. What the hell?’ Ben put his hand to his smarting cheek. She’d slapped him with the full force of her weight behind the blow. It was sharp enough to sting and forceful enough to make him rock on his heels. ‘What was that for?’
His virago of a wife put her hands on her hips and glared at him. Truly, if looks could kill, he’d be in a wooden box, and not only would she be a widow, he had no doubt she’d be a merry one, and choosing the hymns for his funeral.
‘I. Am. Not. Stupid,’ she said fiercely. ‘Do not ever call me that.’
Her voice wavered and she dashed her hand across her eyes.
‘If you think because I was admiring you, that it means we are to live separate lives, it is st …’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Silly.’ He amended his intended word hastily. ‘You look perfect, madam wife. It almost temps me not to eat food, but …’
‘Oh my lord, don’t be tempted, unless by food.’ She opened her eyes wide and the shimmer of tears, from temper not sadness, he decided, showed briefly before she blinked and they disappeared. He could almost see the mental shake she gave herself.
‘After all, temptation is the tool of the devil, they say. Shall we?’ Clarissa walked to the door that led into the hallway and waited for him to open it. Her expression challenged him to argue. Ben knew enough to accept it was neither the time nor the place to lock horns with her. He followed her – like a puppy, he thought in wry amusement – and opened the door to let her pass into the hallway. She swept past him akin to a ship in full sail and dipped her head.
‘Thank you.’ The ice still hadn’t thawed. Ben set about making amends. To be able to present a united face to the ton, they had to spend time alone and out of the capital, so to at least have a modicum of harmony would be preferable. After all, even if he spent his days outside following country pursuits, there were still the nights to contend with. And during one of those nights, whether she liked it or not, they would come together and he would initiate her into the world of being his wife in every sense of the word.
Ben set out to be as pleasant as possible, and to renew his wooing – subtly. He escorted Clarissa into the dining room, chatting inconsequentially, determined to regain the ground he had lost. By the time she was seated and he had served her soup from a tureen on the sideboard, she was giggling at one of his quips. Once they had eaten all they wanted, and he had left her to sit and relax over chocolate while he cleared the table, harmony had once more been restored.
‘Can I help?’ Clarissa asked. ‘Although I confess it’s good to see a man do such menial tasks.’
Ben grinned as he loaded a tray and hefted it onto his shoulder. ‘Enjoy it while it lasts. I thought it best we have minimal intervention from servants so I’ll remove these into the butler’s pantry for them to be taken away in the morning. Sluttish behaviour, no doubt, but accepted because we wish to be alone.’
‘We do?’
‘We must be seen to do, at least.’ Ben dumped the tray in the pantry with unceremonious haste and returned to help his wife up from her chair. ‘Clarissa, can we cry a truce once more? It will not help if we are sniping at each other at every opportunity. Indeed, I had thought we were beginning to be at ease in each other’s company, but now? Well, now I wonder what I must do to get back into your good books again.’ He put his arm around her waist and urged her forward. ‘Shall we go into the small sitting room and have a brandy?’
She nodded and let him propel her out of the room.
‘Plying me with brandy isn’t the way to get into my good books,’ she said as she sank onto a soft sofa and arranged her shawl over her shoulders. ‘Plying me with a good book is. Oh, and a port or a robust red wine wouldn’t hinder your cause.’
Wine? Port?
‘Have you been holding out on me, my love?’
Chapter Six
‘Pardon?’ Clarissa was mystified. What on earth did he mean?
‘Wine and port? I had no idea you liked them.’
‘Oh.’ Her cheeks heated. ‘My half-French godmother taught me a healthy respect for alcohol. Never touch inferior brandy; drink port or red wine instead.’
Ben laughed. ‘A Frenchwoman warning you away from brandy?’
‘Inferior brandy,’ Clarissa corrected him. ‘Which she assured me was mainly found in England. Therefore we drank port or red wine. French, of course. The port she said we had to accept was foreign, but more than adequate for all that.’
Ben howled with laughter. ‘I’d love to meet her; she sounds a formidable woman.’
‘She is; she stands no nonsense,’ Clarissa said in a warning tone. ‘None whatsoever. Put it this way: she would not be anywhere near as accommodating as me.’ She could have groaned when she realised just what she’d said. Ben, of course, pounced on her words like a cat with a mouse.
‘So you intend to accommodate me? How nice.’
‘I didn’t say that. Oh you fiend.’ Embarrassed, she played with the fringe on her shawl and twisted the silky tassels around her fingers. It was that or cover her red cheeks with her hands. Or punch Ben. It was alarming how she reacted so violently to the maddening man. The fact that her attempts generally amused him said a lot for her reluctance to really attack him hard, and lose his customary amiability towards her.
Ben was laughing so much that tears ran down his cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped, the words running into each other in his mirth. ‘But I couldn’t help it. You left yourself wide open there.’
She grinned, reluctantly. He was right. ‘I did, didn’t I? Please give over now, and stop laughing at me. I’m embarrassed enough as it is. I seem to have discovered a new tendency to put my feet into my mouth very emphatically. I’m usually so sweet and complaisant.’
The last statement sent him into a fresh bout of laughing. Clarissa glared. ‘Stop it. Well, I was until recently. It must be marriage. Obviously it and I do not suit.’
