A Certain Latitude (16 page)

“I’ve often thought being a younger son has problems and responsibilities that often go unrewarded,” March said.

Allen, settling the saddle on the mare’s back, looked at him in surprise.

“Oh, yes. I was the youngest of my brothers. I had to make my own way in the world until I could buy my plantation and my independence. So I know what it is to be the one who is at the beck and call of the family.”

“I was not unwilling to make the voyage,” Allen said. “In truth, I needed to leave the city for a while.”

“You enjoy the law, though?”

Allen ducked beneath the mare’s belly to retrieve the girth. “I’ve never felt it was what I should truly do but, as you say, a younger son has no choice.” He tugged the girth tight and buckled it.

“If you are willing,” March said, “I could intercede for you with your father, should you care to change your profession.”

“It’s kind of you, but I’ll stay with the law. It’s interesting enough and I’m quite good at it.” He slapped the mare’s neck.

They were surrounded by the quiet sounds of the stable—rustles and the occasional thud of a hoof on straw, or the steady munch of a feeding horse.

“I’ve rarely had an opponent who fights me with such passion. One would have thought it was to the death, not a friendly bout.” March’s voice was quiet.

“It’s the way I always fight,” Allen returned, puzzled. “How else should I fight?”

March smiled. “That is one part of the puzzle. As for the other…well, desire is a wondrous thing, striking where one would least expect it.”

As he had when they fenced, Allen could feel the heat of March’s body. The dim light of the stable, golden where a shaft came through the doorway, fading to dun and brown, created a small intimate world.

March raised one hand to touch Allen’s shoulder. “My dear, I …” He shook his head.

This was not the seducer, the sensualist Allen had seen before, but a man uncertain of himself, whose eyes held promise and fear.

“I don’t know what …”Allen began.

“Ssh. No words. Not now.” March bent his head to Allen’s: a rough, clumsy brush of lips, the rasp of shaven skin. He made a small sound in his throat—impatience or lust, maybe—and clasped Allen’s chin with his gloved hand. “Give me …”

Urgency flared between them. Not like kissing a woman, no soft yield of breasts or the ribbed stretch of stays—this was masculine and harsh, Allen’s erect cock pressing against March’s; March’s hand hard and possessive on his hip, driving him back against the mare, who shifted and turned her head to nose at them.

“Enough,” March said. He broke the embrace and glanced down with a rueful chuckle. “I’ll have a devil of a ride home.”

Allen found himself blushing like a virgin. Well, by March’s standards, he probably was—an even more appalling thought. He must be mad. Had the languid air and luxury of the island corrupted him already?

He stepped away from the other man. “I—sir, I do not wish you to misconstrue—that is—”

March’s voice was strangely gentle. “Another time. You need to consider what we do, here, Allen.” He unfastened the halter that tethered his mare, letting it fall loose as he backed her out of the stall, one hand on the bridle. He leaned toward Allen and murmured, “I can wait. Think of me.”

The mare’s hooves clattered on the cobbles of the stables as March led her outside. The young groom moved forward, but Allen waved him away and grasped March’s raised heel to hoist him into the saddle. March’s whip stroked briefly over his face, a thin kiss of leather, a touch of his hand on Allen’s shoulder, and then he cantered out of the stable and out of sight.

Following her moonlight stroll with March, Clarissa was unsettled and ill at ease. March had been perfectly gentlemanly that night. He had smiled at her wild conceit of wanting the moon and stars, and then bowed and escorted her back into the house. He had made no further reference to the encounter, and she wondered whether she had misjudged him. She was quite sure she had not misjudged Allen Pendale, but it was now two weeks since he had left the house and she had almost stopped looking for him every time she heard a horse or vehicle approach. Their time together on the ship, their intimacy, now seemed like a dream, far away, half forgotten.

March rarely dined at home and spent most of the day outside the house. Occasionally he would turn up at Celia’s lessons to ruffle his daughter’s hair and make polite enquiries on her progress. These short encounters left Clarissa uneasy and disappointed; she put it down to the general malaise, the headaches and lassitude that newcomers often suffered in the fierce heat.

She lay awake for hours each night, troubled and yearning for something she could barely define. It was March’s face that emerged in her solitary fantasies. March who disturbed her thoughts at unexpected times of the day, haunted her dreams at night, and shamed her: March, the slave owner, the dealer in human flesh, the man who stood for all she hated. But the lustful, fantastic part of her mind, the part that could summon up a pulse between her thighs and wild imaginings, knew that it was March she needed, wanted, desired.

After one such night of vivid imaginings and broken sleep, she sighed, turned over and punched her pillow into shape. She knew the patterns and subtleties of the night sky now. Soon it would be light and, for the moment, the air was cool.

She dressed and wandered downstairs and outside the house. Smoke rose from the kitchen chimney but nothing else stirred. Then she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves on the gravel drive. Shading her eyes against the first rays of the sun, she saw the man on horseback approach: March. A shiver of wanton awareness ran through her.

“Miss Onslowe.” March raised his hat and slowed the horse to a walk. “You’re up early.”

“I wished to take the cool air.”

He reined the horse in and dismounted. “You’re not unwell, I hope? No fever?”

“No, sir. I’m perfectly well.”

He stared down at her, “So you say, yet …” He put a fingertip beneath her chin. “Dark shadows. Do you have trouble sleeping? I trust you don’t pine for our friend, Pendale.”

She shook her head, dislodging his finger. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll see him again.” That was good—the right tone of lighthearted affection. If only he knew that he, March, was the one who occupied so many of her sleepless hours.

“Walk with me, Miss Onslowe.” He looped the reins over his arm.

She fell into step with him, the horse occasionally ducking its head to snatch a mouthful of grass. They passed from shade into a patch of bright morning sunshine.

“The cool air dissipates rapidly now with the sun,” March commented. “And speaking of celestial bodies, I have thought frequently of your yearning for the moon and stars. Do you remember that evening?”

She shrugged. Oh, yes, she remembered. “I have some recollection of it, sir. We were both quite foolish, as I remember.”

He stopped. “We have unfinished business, ma’am, and I wish to open negotiations once more. What do you say to that?”

She took a deep breath. “I say, sir, that I should send for a lawyer.”

“Very good.” He took her hand, tugged gently. “Into the shade with you, Miss Clarissa Onslowe. I’d not see freckles on my mistress’s face. Send for Pendale. Name your terms.”

It had been a week since March had called, and there had been no word from him. The Frensham household was officially in mourning, although other than his father’s habit of retiring to the library with a bottle in the afternoon, Allen suspected little had changed.

When the letter from March’s house was delivered, Allen tore it open with shaking hands, afraid that it would be either a declaration of passion from March, or a suggestion that they consider their episode in the stable a week ago as never having taken place.

But it was a note from Clarissa. A cold chill wandered down his back and he wondered if he were catching a fever. Her writing, which he had never seen before, was refined and flowing, pleasant to the eye.

Sir, I have need of a lawyer. I think you can guess why. Please call on me any afternoon when it is convenient for you.

Yours faithfully,

Clarissa Onslowe.

He should make her wait. Make March wait, too, keep him itching to bed her—it must be March. Who else could it be? Or maybe he already had. The lawyer in him hoped she had not yielded to him, for she would have lost valuable negotiation points. But Clarissa was no fool. As affectionate as she had been with him, until recently at least, she had kept part of herself aloof and cool. A woman in her current profession had to be so. Even a governess could not become too attached to the family she served.

At the time he had admired her for her detachment.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Whose heart was he worried about, anyway? His own, Clarissa’s, or March’s?

He ordered Reuben to have a horse saddled, knowing that the order would pass through the ranks, while he waited and waited, and that eventually he would have to go to the stable and shout at one of the stable boys. It would be far more efficient to saddle the horse himself; it was a ridiculous way of doing things, but as his father had explained, it was the way things were done here.

After a good fifteen minutes of pacing up and down, he left for the stables, and found one of the boys dozing in a shady corner. In England, a lad of his age would be working, too, or at school if he came from a good family. But he wouldn’t be another man’s property.

“Milord.” The child rose to his feet, knuckling his eyes, fearful. He cringed from Allen.

“Oh, go back to sleep,” Allen said, half exasperated, half amused. He had a nephew that age, not long out of his petticoats. He doubted if this boy had ever been an adored baby. If he were lucky he’d stay in the stables, unless he was sent to work in the fields, or the hell of the boiling house.

With the child stumbling behind him, he made his way into the stables and saddled one of the horses, letting the boy believe he was helping, but making sure he kept from under the horse’s hooves.

March’s house was quiet at this hottest part of the day, although smoke rose from the outside kitchen hidden behind a stand of trees. Miss Onslowe, the footman told him, was in the library, and he found her sitting at a table, sheets of paper and an inkwell at the ready.

“It was good of you to come.” Her voice, although as attractive and musical as ever, held a note of hesitation.

“I told you I would, if the occasion arose.” He reached into his coat and produced the braided strands of leather and the small pot of goose grease that he had acquired on the ship.

“Gifts?” Her mouth twisted.

“Tools of the trade, Clarissa.”

“And this?” She tugged at the twine holding the scrap of canvas over the mouth of the crock. She sniffed the contents. “Goose grease?”

“Some activities require a certain slickness.”

She nodded, a faint flush rising in her cheeks. “Shall we begin, then? You’ll take some refreshment?”

He took off his coat and hung it over the back of a chair, as she summoned the footman to bring ale for him, tea for her. He spent a little time sharpening a pen, while she sat silent and ill at ease next to him.

More delays while tea was served, and he swallowed half a mug of ale. She referred to a small scrap of paper on which she’d made notes and cleared her throat.

“I beg your pardon, Allen. This is somewhat awkward, considering…well, what we have shared.”

He didn’t consider it his job to put her at ease. “So. I believe March is worth a good deal. What do you want from him?”

“I thought maybe an annuity.” She didn’t look at him, but at her notes.

“We’ll ask for two hundred guineas a year, but chances are he won’t keep up the payments when you part. Ask him for property—he owns half of Bristol and a good deal of London by all accounts. I’ll specify houses of a modest freehold.” His pen scratched. “I know he has a house on Queens Square, although I doubt he’ll give that to you; it’s still the most expensive part of Bristol. Do you intend to continue as his daughter’s governess?”

“Yes. I—I like her, and she’s lonely. She is becoming much attached to me.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I wish you to specify that my role as his mistress be discrete from that of my role as governess.”

Despite his misgivings, this amused him, but he wrote down the terms. He suggested, among other items, that she should ask March to provide her passage home if she wished to return to England, and for a clothing allowance.

He took another swig of ale and wrote three fair copies of the contract: one for each of them, and one for him, Allen, to keep.

Clarissa sighed and pushed back a lock of hair, dark with sweat, that clung to her forehead. She watched him write, her elbows on the table.

Allen summoned the footman again and told him to take the papers to the master, returning when told to.

He and Clarissa were alone in the room. A bee buzzed and droned at one of the windows.

“I should pay you,” she said.

“I’ll send Lemarchand the bill.”

After a while, the footman returned with the three copies of the contract—signed. At Allen’s bidding he laid them on the table, with a small, wrapped parcel about the size of a small book.

Clarissa picked up the pen and looked at the parcel.

“Are you not going to open it?”

“Why are you so angry?”

“Why am I—oh, for God’s sake, Clarissa. You know why. You must know.”

“Allen—” the pen in her hand hovered above the creamy surface of the paper.

“Wait,” he said. “Before you sign. There is something I must say.”

She shook her head, while he considered the enormity of what he was about to do, the foolishness to which he was reduced, and how much of it had to do with his feelings about March. It was damnably intertwined, and he barely understood it himself.

He took a deep breath and dropped to one knee. “Clarissa, you must be aware that I …” He heard the slight snap as the wax seal broke, the crackle of thick paper unfolded. “My prospects are modest at the moment but I can use my family connections to acquire more clients when we return to England.” He paused. “I can certainly provide for you, although admittedly not to any extravagant degree. I offer you my name, my honor.”