Rushed to the Altar Page 8

  He must have been confident of her agreement, Clarissa thought. She hesitated for a moment, feeling somehow that the simple act of taking the gift would morally commit her to honoring the contract to its bitter end. She realized they were both looking at her expectantly. She couldn’t continue to hesitate; taking the gift was merely part of the contract and she’d leave it behind with everything else when this was over.

  “You are too kind, my lord.” She took the packet and untied the ribbon, opening up the silk wrapping to reveal an exquisite fan with sticks of delicately painted mother-of-pearl and painted leaves of ivory vellum depicting a carnival scene. She opened it slowly; it was so delicate, so fine in every detail, it seemed out of place with the base crudity of her present appearance.

  “I cannot accept it,” she said softly, closing it and holding it out to him. “It’s too beautiful.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Jasper moved her hand aside. “It’s a beautiful fan for a beautiful woman, my dear girl, and I wish you to use it. Come, now, let us go.” He picked up his hat and cane and extended a hand to her. “Madam, will you come?”

  Clarissa yielded, feeling that she was in the grip of a wave that would not release her until it finally washed up on the beach, but she was momentarily reassured by the firm warmth of his clasp as he folded her fingers into his.

  They left the house and Jasper raised his cane at a pair of chairmen loitering in the shadow of the colonnade. They picked up their chair and came over at a run.

  Jasper gave Clarissa a hand into the chair, then, having directed the chairmen to the Strand, walked companionably beside the open window. There was nothing companionable about his conversation, however. It was more a series of instructions.

  “I should warn you that Viscount Bradley is an irascible old man, but he was a libertine in his youth, indeed into his later years, and still has an appreciative eye for female pulchritude. He’ll expect a certain boldness from you. He’s never had time for innocence, pretend or otherwise, so don’t imply it. Be a little vulgar, flirt, be as seductive as you know how, show off your charms. He’ll know why I find you appealing just by looking at you. You may find some of his remarks near the bone; he comes of a different age, when men said what they meant without honey-coating, so if you can match that, he’ll enjoy your company.”

  Clarissa absorbed this in stunned silence. How on earth was she to behave like a vulgar prostitute, flirt seductively with an old man, presumably flash her painted nipples at him? It was ludicrous. It bore no relationship to the charades of her past. She flipped open the fan and closed it again with a snap. Nevertheless she could do it. She would do it.

  “Are you clear? Do you have any questions?”

  Thousands, but she didn’t say so. “It sounds rather intimidating” was all she managed.

  “Yes, he is an intimidating old bastard.” Jasper laughed shortly. “But he happens to hold my salvation between his hands, so I need you to act as you’ve never acted before. Imagine he’s a client, if that helps, one with particular tastes. I’m sure you’re accustomed to acting out all sorts of roles for your customers; just imagine you’re in the nunnery entertaining an old gentleman of less than refined tastes.”

  Clarissa was afraid she was going to start howling with laughter again at the lunatic absurdity of the whole situation. She bit down hard on her lip, then remembered the paint and hastily rubbed at her front teeth with her fingertip. She leaned towards the open window on the far side of the chair, away from the earl, and concentrated fiercely on the busy street until certain she had the unruly impulse under control. And then all desire to laugh vanished. Luke was walking briskly along the street a few yards away from her chair but in the same direction. She leaned back, away from the aperture, her heart thumping.

  What were the odds of seeing him like this? But they were not that bad, of course. The London she and Luke were inhabiting was a very small area, maybe three square miles in all. She couldn’t follow him now, but as soon as she was free of the earl later this morning, she would return to Ludgate Hill. If Clarissa Astley, the well-bred, refined, carefully educated daughter of Squire Astley and Lady Lavinia Astley, could fool an irascible libertine of an old nobleman into believing her to be a prostitute, she could present herself at Luke’s kitchen door as someone she wasn’t. An itinerant gypsy, perhaps, or a beggar maid, a girl down on her luck for some reason. Surely someone in Luke’s household would have had dealings with the little boy before he’d been packed off to whatever hellhole held him now.

  Suddenly the charade took on a different patina. If she could play one part, certainly she could play another. And the better she played the one, the better she would play the other.

  Suddenly emboldened Clarissa leaned forward, resting an arm on the edge of the window, once again looking for Luke. She allowed the shawl to slip open to reveal her bosom. Even if Luke saw her he would never recognize her in her present guise and beneath all the paint and powder. He wasn’t expecting to see her anywhere in the city, so it would never occur to him that this painted, half-dressed harlot could have anything at all in common with his niece.

  He was still walking on the far side of the thoroughfare, swinging his cane, his gaze flickering from side to side. He glanced into the street at the passing traffic and for one brief instant his eyes met Clarissa’s. She forced herself to maintain an air of indifference as she looked past him, giving the impression of an idle interest in the street scene. Her body thrummed with the suspense, with the dread that she was wrong and he would recognize her and give chase, but his gaze lingered on her only briefly, and even for that short time Clarissa recognized the lascivious nature of his cursory inspection. It was oddly comforting that Luke of all people should see a whore instead of his virgin niece.

  “I don’t appear to be holding your attention,” the earl remarked, laying a hand on the edge of the window beside him.

  “Oh, forgive me, I thought I saw someone I know.” She gave an unconvincing little titter and turned her eyes on him again. “You were talking of your uncle . . . ?”

  “Actually, I was not,” he said drily. “I was talking of my twin brothers, whom you might well meet at the viscount’s house. It is imperative that you don’t reveal to them that you know about our uncle’s will and even more so about our little arrangement. Those details must be kept strictly between the two of us. Is that clear?”

  Clarissa gave him a smile of bland innocence. “Perfectly. It is for you to make the conditions, my lord. I am merely your servant.”

  “Your understanding of the situation is a weight off my mind,” he observed as drily as before.

  Clarissa wondered if she had overstepped the line but had no time to ponder the question because the chair had come to a halt and the chairmen were setting it down outside the imposing front door of a double-fronted mansion. Jasper paid the chairmen and handed her out.

  He escorted her up the short flight of well-honed steps and lifted the big brass door knocker. In a few minutes the sound of scraping bolts heralded the door’s opening. An elderly retainer in powdered wig and brocade livery bowed as he held the door wide.

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  “Good morning, Louis.” Jasper urged Clarissa ahead of him into a large, square hall with a beautiful frescoed ceiling and ornately gilded molding. A magnificent horseshoe staircase rose from the rear to a galleried landing. “How is his lordship this morning?” He handed his hat, cane, and cloak to the retainer. “Is he receiving?”

  “He is always happy to receive you, Lord Blackwater.” The man laid his burdens on a highly polished settle and glanced curiously at the earl’s companion.

  Clarissa had instinctively drawn the shawl close around her shoulders as she’d stepped into the street but now Jasper twitched it out of her grasp and away from her body. “You won’t need this, it’s always too warm in the viscount’s apartments.” He handed the shawl to the retainer, who took it without a word, but with a surreptitious glan
ce at the expanse of white skin its removal revealed.

  Clarissa felt as naked as if she had no clothes on at all but she resisted the urge to adjust the lace of the gown’s neckline to cover her nipples, telling herself firmly that she was in costume for a charade, no more, no less.

  “I’ll announce myself, Louis.” The earl moved towards the staircase, easing Clarissa in front of him with a hand on her arm. The warmth of his fingers penetrated the thin muslin of her elbow-length sleeves. “There’s no need to be nervous, Clarissa, I won’t leave you alone with him.”

  “I’m not,” she denied, realizing that in truth she was more curious about this devious, degenerate old man than nervous. Besides, he was a bedridden invalid; what harm could he do her?

  Jasper opened a set of double doors along the landing. They gave onto a thickly carpeted antechamber. Clarissa looked around, noticing the richness of the furnishings; the gold and silver ornaments, some elaborately carved; and the array of delicately painted porcelain figurines. “Is the viscount a collector?”

  Jasper glanced around the room. “He’s always been an acquisitive tyrant. Much of the treasure in this house, and particularly the gold and silver, he brought from India, and God alone knows whether it was honestly acquired. I would guess not, myself.” He crossed to another set of doors in the far wall and knocked once.

  “Stay in here until I call for you.” He opened the doors and stepped into the room beyond.

  Clarissa wandered around the antechamber examining the objets d’art. They were ornate and beautiful for the most part. A gold pedestal urn in particular caught her eye for the elaborate engravings that adorned it. She examined it closely and then jumped back with a startled gasp. Innocent though she may have been, she’d have to have lived in a silent order in a convent all her life not to recognize the obscenities depicted. The figures were engaged in multiple forms of carnal intercourse, each one connecting to the one in front. Fascinated now, she bent closer, turning the urn as she followed the progress of the figures around the pedestal. She was so absorbed she didn’t hear the door opening again.

  “Amusing, isn’t it? Hard to believe such positions are actually possible.”

  She stepped backwards guiltily, her cheeks flushed as if she’d been caught in some unsavory activity. The earl was standing so close behind her she stepped on his foot, her body coming up hard against his.

  “I beg your pardon . . . forgive me . . . I didn’t hear you,” she stammered, trying to move sideways away from him, but he put an arm around her, pinning her in place against him.

  “Don’t move, I’m enjoying this.” There was a chuckle in his voice and his breath was warm on the nape of her neck. His hands slid up from her waist, lightly cupping her breasts, his fingers moving over the dark red nipples above the lace.

  “No, please don’t,” she exclaimed, her body stiffening. “Let me go, my lord, please. We had an agreement.”

  “Did we? I don’t remember agreeing to anything more than putting the matter on hold for a while.”

  “So, you’d stoop to rape, would you, my lord?” Her voice shook with fear-fueled outrage as she realized that in this house she could not stop him from doing anything he wished with her.

  His hands dropped from her as if she were a burning brand and he thrust her almost roughly away from him. “Don’t ever accuse me of that again.”

  Clarissa turned to look at him. His expression was dark, his eyes black and unreadable. “You frightened me,” she said softly. “Can’t you understand how helpless I feel, here alone with you?”

  His expression became one of acute exasperation, although his voice remained low. “Good God, woman, you’re a whore. How could I possibly have frightened you? You know what to expect. You signed an agreement; don’t tell me you expected that to include nothing more than pretty clothes in a pleasant house in exchange for a little playacting?”

  There was nothing to be said, given that the truth was an impossibility. She turned away, saying dully, “Is your uncle receiving?”

  Jasper didn’t immediately respond. He looked at her in angry puzzlement, once again wondering what it was about this young woman that set him back on his heels at every turn. He knew what she was, so why did her behavior seem to deny it? There was nothing to be gained by the denial, not in his company anyway. God’s blood, he’d seen the way she ate an oyster, the most seductive act he’d ever witnessed. She lived in a whorehouse, she’d signed a whore’s contract. And the plain fact of the matter was that he wanted her. Perhaps she was holding him off in order to get more out of him. That was a whore’s trick, one he knew well. It had been played on him several times before—not with any success, mind you, but it had certainly been tried.

  That made sense of her paradoxical come-hither, go-whither behavior, and she’d learn soon enough that he was no gull.

  “He’s waiting for you,” he said, his tone curt. He went ahead of her to the far door that still stood ajar. “Allow me to introduce Mistress Clarissa Ordway, sir.” He reached for her wrist and drew her up beside him as he entered the chamber.

  Clarissa blinked in the dim light. The curtains were partially drawn across the long windows, shutting out the crisp autumn sunlight, and a fire blazed in the massive hearth. Wax candles burned around the room and the faint odor of a sickroom lingered in the stuffy air. An old man in a fur-trimmed robe, fur rugs wrapped around his knees, was ensconced beside the fireplace, a glass of wine held in a surprisingly graceful hand, the slender, white-skinned hand of a much younger man. He raised a quizzing glass and examined Clarissa as she stepped hesitantly towards him.

  “Well, come closer, girl, I don’t bite,” he rasped.

  Clarissa came within several feet of him and curtsied. “Good morning, my lord.”

  “Hmm.” He raised his quizzing glass again. “So, you’re my nephew’s latest piece. Not bad . . . not bad at all. Nice bubbies; a bit small, but shapely enough.”

  “La, sir, you flatter me. I believe them to be insignificant.” She curtsied again, flicking open her fan, smiling at him over the edge, fluttering her thick golden-brown lashes.

  He laughed. “Don’t shortchange yourself, girl. Which nunnery are you from?”

  “Mistress Griffiths’s, sir.”

  The old man cackled. “Nan’s still at it, is she? Well, she always did run a fine establishment. Jasper, over there”—he gestured with his head to where his nephew stood—“he lost his virginity in that house when he was a lad of sixteen. God alone knows how he managed to get to such an age with his cock untried, but that father of his was a namby-pamby, and as for his mother—”

  Jasper interrupted him, his voice mildly remonstrative. “You may cast as many aspersions as you wish upon my lamentable lack of physical education, sir, but I beg that you will leave my mother, at least, out of the conversation.”

  Clarissa was much amused. She ought to have been shocked by the old man’s language but instead found it entertaining; it was so unlike anything she’d ever been exposed to before. Amazingly, she thought, she could probably manage to hold her own.

  “Oh, your mother was a milksop.” The viscount waved a dismissive hand but refrained from any further mention of his brother’s wife. “Go away, Jasper, and leave me with this charming creature.” He patted the ottoman beside his chair. “Sit here, my girl, and tell me all about yourself. How long have you been at Mother Griffiths’s?”

  Clarissa took the seat, arranging her skirts carefully and making sure the old man had a good view of her bosom. “Just a few weeks, sir. I came to London to make my fortune.”

  “Oh, you and half a hundred other girls,” the viscount declared with a chuckle. “And not many of ’em will make it.” He leaned closer, examining her again through his glass. “I’d lay odds you will though. Cosgrove, you black crow, fetch a glass for this pretty creature. I insist you take a drink with me, my dear.”

  Clarissa hadn’t noticed the other inhabitant of the darkened chamber. A tall, thin, a
ngular man in the black robes of a priest appeared suddenly from the shadows by the bed curtains and stepped soundlessly across the room. A heavy cross hung from his neck, his rosary beads at the waist of his cassock. He regarded Clarissa with an expression of alarm and she thought sympathetically that the poor young man had probably never expected to find himself waiting upon a whore, any more than she had expected to act the whore.

  “My secretary and confessor, Father Cosgrove,” the viscount said with a vague wave between them. “Fetch a glass, man.”

  The priest slid back into the shadows and returned with a wineglass that he set down on the table beside the viscount’s chair.

  “Well pour, pour for the lady, man.”

  He filled the glass and handed it to Clarissa, who thanked him with a smile that Mistress Clarissa Astley would have bestowed upon her own parish priest. He looked momentarily reassured, before fading into the background once more.

  “So, what d’you think of my nephew, then, Mistress Clarissa?” the viscount demanded with a glint in his eye. “It’s all right, he’s left us, so you can speak freely. How’s his swordsmanship?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.” Clarissa was genuinely surprised at the question. “I’ve never witnessed it.”

  “What? You mean the blackguard’s not bedded you yet? What’s the matter with him? Lost his gumption . . . lost his starch?”

  Clarissa struggled to recover from her mistake. She laughed, trying to sound insouciant. “I was funning, sir. A stupid jest, of course. It’s true I have never witnessed my lord Blackwater on the dueling field, but in other matters . . .” She gave him a bold smile, remembering that Jasper had told her the viscount did not like false innocence. “I have no complaints, my lord.”

  He nodded and drank from his glass. “It’s been a few too many years since I had a woman in my bed. Old age is the very devil. But I’ve had my moments.” He glanced towards the shadows by the bed. “Haven’t I, Father Cosgrove? I’ve had my moments indeed.”