Defiant Angel (35 page)

T
iffany stood at the bay windows in the study watching two squirrels scamper up and down the trunk of a large sycamore. She suppressed a giggle watching them leap from branch to branch in pursuit.

The earth was covered in brown, still asleep, awaiting spring before its blanket would change to a mossy green. The trees were still bare of leaves, their limbs swaying in the March wind, showing signs of the promise of spring in the nubs dotting their branches.

Her cheeks burned from the cold winds and were apple red after having ridden an hour before. Today, unlike every other day, she had ridden along wildly over the endless meadows of Wentworth. Normally she rode with Clinton every morn after (as Clinton put it) their romp in bed, and then they'd breakfast in the conservatory, he leisurely reading his morning paper and she tending to the large assortment of plants and flowers that graced the room. She enjoyed the conservatory, for it overlooked the gardens, and often she imagined, come spring, the bay windows would be opened, letting in the fragrant breezes.

This morning she had cut her ride short and sought out the study--her favorite room of all. As to why Clinton's study was her favorite room, she could only speculate. It laced the eastern portion of the estate, and from where she siood, behind Clinton's desk, the bay windows offered an uninterrupted view of the rolling meadows that stretched to the paddocks.

There was something about the smell that permeated this room and which she found pleasing--leather, tobacco, and brandy. It was cozy to her, although its size belied the word. For some unexplained reason, she felt secure and comfortable and often sought it out.

The study incorporated a library within it whose walls were lined with rows upon rows of books. A spiral staircase wound its way to the second level, where a balcony ran. The remaining walls of the study were paneled in mahogany, which shone with its daily application of beeswax. Portraits of famous horses filled the spaces, along with dueling pistols and sabers. It was decidedly a masculine room, reflecting the master of the home. It was comfortable, lived-in, as evidenced by the well-worn leather chairs and couch arranged in a semicircle in front of the immense stone hearth, where a cheery fire always burned. Above the mantel of the hearth was a life-size portrait Clinton had commissioned of her; she stood at the bluff dressed in breeches and a lawn shirt, her hair loose, blowing in the wind, her hand at her head, holding back the strands. A plaque beneath the portrait read, "Varium et mutabile semper femina," (a woman is ever a changeable and capricious thing).

Often when she sat curled up in the soft leather chair, a quilt tucked about her, reading a book, she'd glance up at the painting and wonder why Clinton had chosen that quotation. Once when she asked him, he smiled, saying, "I thought you'd prefer it to the original quotation, 'Veni, vidi, vici' (I came, I saw, I conquered)." With his reply, she had tossed her head and stormed away, while he laughed.

The antics of the squirrels caught her attention, breaking her thoughts until they disappeared from sight. She sighed, feeling a restlessness she had not felt since the very beginning of her marriage. Then she had used the freedom offered to its maximum, riding for hours upon hours, trying to escape Clinton's presence and her reality, seeking her elusive butterfly as she had done for most of her life. But of late, knowing she had the freedom, she no longer pursued it with a vengeance and instead found herself spending more and more time in his study.

She touched the leaded pane of glass and traced the initials T.B. She remembered the day she sat curled before the fire and Clinton had entered the study with a business acquaintance. She had risen to leave but was stopped by Clinton bidding her to remain, and when she sought to argue, he simply announced his business was hers as well. She had remained and henceforth used the room as if it were hers; never leaving when he worked alone or conducted meetings. Even now as she drifted back to the present, she heard the soft murmurs of conversation between Clinton and Mr. Boniface. Once she asked him what his associates thought of her presence, and he merely replied he cared not what they thought.

In this room she'd often sit going over the week's menus and invitations while Clinton worked diligently at his desk or conducted a business meeting. This room, save the bedroom, provided her with an insight to another side of her husband--the ruthless, ever shrewd businessman. She was amazed at the vastness of his empire, how diversified it was, and the staggering amounts of money made and spent In its running.

She could detect and recognize Clinton's position on a matter just by the tone of his voice. He could be coolly ill .approving, or his tone could harden ruthlessly, and on occasion, a silken thread of warning would etch his voice. She shivered involuntarily as she thought of this other side nl him. He was absolutely commanding, highly ambitious, eniicmely formidable. His decision-making process ran limn quick to the point of astute consideration. He kept Ills own counsel, debating the pros and cons, and often, >>in prisingly, asked her opinion.

There was no doubt in her mind now, she never had a chance against him, for in business ventures, he was ruthless, driven to secure what he wanted. And after all, wasn't that what she was--a business venture? Bought and paid for. She frowned, not wishing to remind herself she was just another conquest, another addition to his worldly possessions.

Lifting her chin in a defiant manner, she remembered exactly the lengths this man had gone to to secure his prize, and again she congratulated herself over her decision never to yield her heart to him. God knows she had a difficult time in not yielding to him, for he was an opponent who gave no quarter. By God, she had already lost her body to him, unable to deny the unbearable pleasure he gave her. Her soul, alas, had yielded as well, for he nurtured and drew it from her. She sighed, remembering he had once promised her he would have nothing less than all of her--ail that remained was her heart, but that she would hold from him, for it belonged to another--Alan.

Alan. I wonder where he is, she thought. She cocked her head, wondering, Does he ever think of me? When will he return? Does he know another claimed me? Her mind screamed out in defense, Of course not, you ninny! Else he would have returned, posthaste, to reclaim you. Biting her lower lip, which trembled, she allowed her mind to wander. Does he still love me? But of course he does; time and distance never changed my feelings. One does not just fall out of love. She chewed at her index finger, asking, Why has he not even sent a note or a letter? Probably, her mind rationalized, because Father would never forward them. Why else, you silly goose! Again she lifted her chin and refused to think any more about it.

She shifted from one foot to the other thinking of her mercurial mood swings of late, causing her to dwell on unhappy thoughts, attributing it to the coming of her monthly flux. Nodding her head in assent with her thoughts, she mused, I am acting like a ninny because my flux always puts a damper on my spirits, for it is a time when I am restricted.

And Tiffany hated being restricted. She balked at it, having lived most of her life under her father's forced restrictions. She had to admit even though Clinton was not her chosen husband and the marriage not her idea, the fact that she lived a pretty unrestricted life, within reason, was one positive side. She smiled, imagining her father's face if he ever knew of the activities she and Clinton had engaged in on some evenings. Why, Father would be aghast at the number of scandalous card games and games of chance she had learned. She smiled, remembering a game of piquet where she and Clinton wagered their clothing! Yes, she thought, the last few months have not been boring!

Yet the thought of her coming flux did dampen her spirits, for she would be unable to engage in their morning ride, nor--and she felt her cheeks burn with the thought-- would she be able to satisfy the cravings of her body. God, how she hated to admit it, but she did crave Clinton and did miss their nightly coupling. She felt her face burn hotter as he had promised her monthly inconvenience would not hinder them from their pleasure, but he had as of yet to show her. She knew tenseness and frustration would come upon her, and she signed in resignation. What bothered her most was that even after her flux passed, Clinton would hold himself away for days till she thought she'd die from the cravings. She often thought about seducing him, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. A well-brought-up woman did not do such things! And if one did, one surely loved, and she did not love him. He simply did not hold her heart!

"Tiffany, love."

She turned at the sound of her name to face Clinton, whose hand was extended toward her. She smiled, gazing at his handsome visage, an unasked question on her face.

Clinton smiled softly in return, realizing she had been off somewhere, and explained, "Mr. Boniface is leaving, love."

Placing her hand in Clinton's, allowed him to present her to their guest, Tiffany extended her other hand to Mr. Boniface, who placed a kiss upon it. "Your Grace, it's been a pleasure meeting you. I had heard rumors of your beauty, but mere words do you no justice."

"You are too kind, Mr. Boniface. I do hope you'll return to Wentworth; perhaps you'll be able to stay."

Mr. Boniface smiled and replied, "Hopefully, Your Grace, both you and Clinton will be able to attend a ball my wife and I are hosting when you arrive in London next month."

Clinton inteijected, knowing Tiffany had not listened to their conversation. "We will let you know, Horace, once I have reviewed the itinerary with my wife. We are scheduled to go abroad to France, and perhaps we will be able to take you up on your invitation."

After the butler had shown Mr. Boniface out and they were alone, Clinton walked over to Tiffany, drawing her into the circle of his arms. He raised his hand and caressed her windburned cheek.

"You rode without me, Princess. Why?"

Tiffany shivered at his touch and felt a fluttering in her belly at his soft-spoken words. A delicious shiver went down her spine as she felt hef body against his. "You had already ridden and were engaged with Mr. Boniface."

He smiled softly. "Aye, Princess, indeed I did ride a most tender mount this morning. A raven-maned, feisty mare with a soft saddle who I left quite exhausted and sprawled sleepily across my bed. So exhausted from her ride, I was unable to roust her up to put her in a different saddle."

Tiffany felt her cheeks pinken at his words. Refusing to be drawn, she asked, "You did not tell me we were going abroad. I felt quite foolish, you know, when Mr. Boniface asked." She broke from his embrace, turning her back to him, adding, "Of course, what with your highhandedness, I should not be surprised. Just another flaw in your character."

Clinton casually appraised her trim form, his eyes lingering in their travels on her rounded, enticing derriere, snugly encased by her breeches.

"A flaw, you say, Princess? Something like wrongingly accusing?"

Tiffany did not take the bait and remained silent with her back to him. Clinton continued, "Princess, while you were wool-gathering at the window, all the arrangements were made in this very room." Still refusing to turn, Tiffany held her ground. Clinton moved to sit at the edge of his desk, where he withdrew a cheroot, tapping it against the desk.

"I thought, Princess, that is, in my highhanded manner, of course, that country life was dampening your spirits. Wanting nothing more but your happiness, I arranged a trip to France. On our way to France I thought a week in London, going to the opera, theater, and such, would be nice." He paused to light his cheroot; Tiffany began to turn toward him, her interest piqued. Clinton pulled leisurely on his cigar, blowing a curl of smoke. Smiling, he said, "Then I thought we'd travel to Paris and attend a horse race."

"A horse race! Really?" Tiffany rushed over to Clinton and stood between his legs, her blue eyes as big as saucers. "You're not teasing me, are you?"

Clinton smiled in response to her question and shook his head.

Tiffany squealed with delight, throwing her arms about his neck, placing a quick kiss on his lips. Clinton was pleased with her uninhibited response but would have liked to plunder her sweet mouth in a deep, passionate kiss. His hands encircled her waist, bringing her closer to him, as she rushed on, "Really? You do mean it, don't you?"

Clinton nodded his head. "Have you a doubt?"

She laughed with joy; it was music to his ears. He vowed he'd take her anywhere, just to hear that sound.

Her laughter died with her words.' 'But Father always said a horse race was no place for a lady, that only ladybirds and paramours attended such." She frowned and rushed on, as if doubting her last statement. "Although the only race I attended, well, I really didn't attend it . . ." She stopped, realizing he of all people knew the race she referred to.

She shook her head, wishing to forget that incident, and asked, "Do we have a horse entered? Surely not Xanadu!"

Clinton smiled over her exuberance, and not wishing to put a damper on her excitement, made no mention of the encounter. He lifted her chin with his fingers and said, "Princess, you are a duchess, you can do as you please, no matter what your father's notions are. You are my wife, my lover, my paramour, if you will. And yes, we do have a horse entered, and no, of course not Xanadu."

"Which horse do we have entered if not Xanadu?"