A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Anthony nodded. “The only group I’m unsure of is the principal line. They hold themselves aloof these days, mostly thanks to Moira, Clarice’s stepmother. Clarice’s father may have died, but Moira’s still a force within the marquisate. The present Melton, Clarice’s brother, allows Moira’s wishes to hold sway. Well, he hasn’t married yet, so Moira’s his hostess, and the senior lady of the house.”

Jack considered. After a moment, he asked, “So you can’t tell me how Clarice’s immediate family—Melton, her other brothers, her half sisters and half brother—will react if she reappears in town.”

Anthony grimaced, and shook his head. “Perhaps Teddy…but no. He sees them less than I do.” He frowned. A moment passed, then he said, “I can’t think of anyone who could tell you how her immediate family view Clarice now. Her father died two years ago, and while he was alive no one dared mention her name in his house or his hearing. That I do know.”

“But what the real feelings are now, you can’t say?”

“Other than for Moira.” Anthony met Jack’s eyes. “Moira was always jealous of Clarice. You might say she hates Clarice—she certainly acts like it—but it’s hate driven by jealousy.”

“Jealousy of the weak for the strong?”

“Precisely. I’ve never heard that Clarice did anything to account for Moira’s hatred.”

“Other than being Clarice?”

Anthony grinned. “Other than that.” After a moment, he ruefully admitted, “She didn’t trounce me at chess. She wiped me off the board, and I’m not even sure she was paying all that much attention.”

Jack smiled and rose. “I did warn you.” With a salute, he turned to the door. “My thanks for the information. I’ll see you at dinner.”

He headed downstairs and returned to the library. Sitting in the chair behind his desk, leaning back, eyes fixed unseeing on the far wall, he went over all Anthony had told him, creating a framework of expectations of what they would meet when he and Clarice went to London.

By the time the gong for dinner sounded and he rose and headed for the door, he had a better notion of what she—they—would face.

Gaps, blanks, still covered crucial areas, but he could see enough to realize and appreciate Clarice’s courage in, without hesitation, insisting on going to London on James’s behalf.

Even though she’d known it would mean bearding the dragons of her past. Even though going back would almost certainly mean dealing with a woman who hated her, and who very possibly still possessed the means to hurt her deeply.

Much later that night, Clarice stood at the folly windows, looking out over the sleeping countryside. Sprawled on the daybed, sated to his toes, Jack watched her. She wasn’t brooding—she rarely brooded; she was thinking, planning.

Turning, she looked through the heavy shadows at him. After a moment, she asked, “When do you think we should leave for London?”

He considered her phrasing, then evenly replied, “The day after tomorrow.”

Enough moonlight spilled in for him to see her blink. She stared at him, unmoving, for a long moment, then pushed away from the window. On bare feet, she padded closer; stopping by the daybed’s side, she looked into his face. There was a frown in her eyes. “I said ‘we’—you heard me.”

Not a question, so he made no response, merely lay there, looking up at her, at her long, curvaceous, luscious body, totally bare, his to savor.

Her frown materialized. “Aren’t you going to argue?”

Lifting his gaze to her face, he settled his head more comfortably on the daybed’s back. “Is there any point?”

She studied him; gradually, a smile replaced her frown. “You’re a strange man, Jack Warnefleet.”

Her voice had lowered to that intimate tone that never failed to arouse him, that hinted of the sultry, more deep-throated purr that acted on his libido like a sharpened spur.

His lips curved in blatant anticipation rather than humor. He made no reply, just reached for her hand and drew her down to him.

Drew her into his arms, and turned his mind to her conquest, even though he knew the truth. He wasn’t strange, he was addicted. To the taste of her, the smell of her, the warmth of her. He wasn’t strange, he was committed.

To having all that for the rest of his days.

Two evenings later, Clarice looked about her as Jack handed her down from James’s traveling carriage. “I told you I usually stay at the Crown and Anchor in Reading.”

“And I usually stay at the Pelican, also in Readi

ng.” Unperturbed, Jack looked around.

Clarice looked up at the sign swinging above the inn’s side door. “The Maiden & Sword” was neatly lettered on it.