The Sinner Who Seduced Me (13 page)

James fastened the buttons on his shirt and adjusted the cuffs of his coat. A cool remoteness settled over his countenance that chilled Clarissa to the bone. “Do sleep well, Clarissa.” His voice was brusque. “We’ve a busy night of debauchery ahead of us—though, I can now attest to the fact that you’re well up to the task.”

The words slammed into Clarissa’s heart with all the force she felt sure James had intended. She reached for a pillow and threw it at his retreating form.

He opened the door and walked out, not bothering to look back as he slammed it.

Shaken and wounded, Clarissa crawled to the top of the bed, where the rest of the pillows lay. She chose a small, rectangular one with silken tassels, curled herself beneath the soft bedding, and screamed into the pillow until her voice disappeared.

It had taken all of three minutes for James to realize he could not stay in his chamber. Nor was the library acceptable, not even the kitchens, where the tantalizing smells of the day’s stewed apples only made his stomach roil.

He’d taken up a lamp pilfered from the servants’ hall and bolted from Kenwood House, running through the gardens and across the endless expanse of lawns and wooded areas until he’d reached the lake.

He didn’t even bother removing his clothing. Just jumped right in, swimming until he could hardly feel his arms and legs. Sadly, his cock and balls continued to ache, but as James looked up into the starry sky, he knew the situation was his own fault.

He floated faceup, willing his heart to seal back up into the charred bit of flesh and blood he’d managed to salvage after Clarissa had destroyed it the last time.

At last, he turned onto his belly and slowly swam for shore. His feet touched the sandy bottom and he waded the rest of the way, collapsing near where he’d met with Pettibone earlier that day.

Though Pettibone was a snide, corrupt ass, he’d been right. James needed to take control, and fast. If the past hour had proven anything, it was that he was far weaker than he’d ever been before when it came to Clarissa. He’d begun this assignment resolute and focused, but that had faded as he began to remember what it was that made him fall in love with her.

He’d been stupid and careless and now he was paying the price.

A shooting star whizzed through the sky high above. James watched it fly, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing aloud. “Let me remember what it was that drove us apart. Let me remember and never forget.”

The feeling in his arms began to return. And so he dove back into the water, intent on swimming until he felt nothing at all.

“Really Monsieur Rougier, you are a devil,” Iris teased archly, leaning across the space that separated the carriage seats and patting him lightly on the thigh.

Clarissa watched with disgust as James flashed a smile to match the description. Though it was well past midnight and dark within the coach, she turned her head and looked out the carriage window to distract herself from her companions.

They’d left the leafy boundaries of the heath and arrived somewhere in London, that much she could discern. The soft, rutted roads had been replaced by cobblestone. Lamplight provided a dim view of buildings and carriages lined up here and there, but it was far too dark for Clarissa to secure her bearings.

Oddly enough, the feeling was becoming familiar to her. She’d not known what to expect from James after their … She hardly even knew how to think on their encounter. What had begun as the sweetest of physical reunions had ended as nothing more than a mistake.

The wheel hit a rut in the road and the carriage pitched slightly, causing Clarissa’s leg to press against James’s. She slid to the outer wall as if she’d been burned and stole a glimpse at James. He was busily engaged at the present with Iris, colorfully describing for her all that she could expect to see that evening.

The touch had gone unnoticed. At least by James. For
that matter, their night together had produced the same effect. He’d been so tender earlier, so attentive. He’d bared his heart with his touch, his thoughts with few but loving words. However, the moment their misunderstanding had been revealed, he’d shuttered himself from her and become the man she’d met in Paris.

They’d spoken briefly before leaving Kenwood House for the Cyprians’ Ball, James explaining to Clarissa how the night should and, more important,
would
play out—or they’d all live to regret it. In a cold, detached tone, he’d made it relentlessly clear that the control lay within his hands. He would brook no arguments, accept nothing less than her complete compliance.

The driver shouted at a conveyance in his path, the colorful oaths he used to encourage the man to move out of the way drawing a giggle from Iris.

“Honestly, Monsieur St. Michelle,” Iris said excitedly, “is this not deliciously wicked? Careening about the streets of London in the middle of the night on our way to the most decadent of events?”

James slapped Clarissa on the thigh good-naturedly. “Would you not agree, St. Michelle?” he pressed, then drew his hand back. “Oh, I’m afraid I forgot myself for a moment. Please
pardonnez-moi
, monsieur.”

Clarissa rubbed the spot where James’s hand had been, her skin stinging from the forceful gesture. “I assure you, Rougier, I thought nothing of it,” she replied, knowing she did a poor job of hiding her irritation.

“Come now, you two,” Iris coaxed. “The whole point in going to such an event is to forget yourself, is it not?”

Clarissa had hoped that the mere idea of the Cyprians’ Ball would be scandalous enough to satisfy Iris’s need for excitement. She was beginning to think otherwise, a fear she’d shared with James before they’d departed. He’d listened with marked detachment, then assured her that he’d prepared for all scenarios. Les Moines would
have more than James in attendance, a fact that was meant to ease her concerns.

Clarissa simply nodded at Iris and offered a flat “
Oui
” before turning back to the window. Knowledge of the agents’ presence had produced little peace. Not that she had any illusions of escaping at the ball. Even if she managed to elude James, where would she go? Who would be able to help her against Les Moines? With her mother across the Channel in France, there was no other choice for Clarissa than to continue with the charade.

The carriage slowed and a pool of firelight from a multitude of torches affixed to a building lit the compartment. Clarissa listened to the two as James whispered across to Iris and she responded with a practiced titter.

Perhaps, as James had suggested, Clarissa should have left well enough alone. If she’d not let her feelings for him get in the way, she’d be in Kenwood House, tucked up in her bed with only her pillows to keep her company. While James …

The Argyle Rooms came into view and the carriage pulled into line, drawing to a halt as they waited for the coaches in front of them to deposit their patrons on the steps and move on.

Clarissa breathed deeply. There was no point in thinking on what would have happened had she been capable of controlling herself. There would be no going back … or was there a chance still?

“Mademoiselle, are you certain you wish to go in?” Clarissa asked as the carriage rolled forward again before halting directly in front of the steps.

Iris offered James and Clarissa a wide smile, her eyes dancing with anticipation. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

A liveried servant let down the carriage steps and opened the door, offering his hand. Clarissa batted it
away and jumped down. “
Eh, bien. En avant,
” she muttered to herself, too scared to care if anyone heard her.

“Why are we the only ones in domino?” Iris exlaimed disapointedly, as the three stood just inside the ballroom.

She was beginning to irritate James. “We cannot afford for you to be seen,” he answered. “Besides, it makes you all the more mysterious,
non
?” He adjusted his ridiculous mask yet again and looked at the girl. Her dress was Grecian in style, with a bodice that dipped nearly to her navel and an iridescent mask that covered more of her identity than the dress did her body. Clarissa’s concern that Iris might want more than mere titillation had been correct—though James could have puzzled it out for himself. The girl’s advances when she’d accosted him in his bedchamber had left no room for speculation. He rather thought they’d be lucky to leave with her virginity intact—and that would be, if the rumors concerning the Cyprians’ Ball were even half true, a hard-fought war.

Iris smiled teasingly, clearly pleased with James’s answer, then looked to the dance floor. James turned to look at the crowd. At first glance, it appeared much like any other ball, civilized, even mundane. The orchestra played the same plodding tunes. The couples performed the familiar tired steps. But as one looked closer, what set the Cyprians’ Ball apart from the acceptable ton events began to become clear. The women were uniformly beautiful—no homely wallflowers or beefy grande dames to be found among them. But more than that, they exuded a sexual sophistication that was unique to the courtesan. Prostitutes, though able to complete the job, tended toward mechanical movements—hardly surprising considering the surly lot they served. Wives, on the other hand, from what James had been led to believe,
were chaste—something to be worshipped rather than poked.

But the courtesan? She took her art seriously. It was, after all, a means of moving up in the world for the women. Wealth, power, and a certain prestige belonged to the woman who landed the richest of those men who played the game.

James could see the allure and had even sampled their wares, but he preferred his fun without games.

James watched as the music ended and a few couples slipped from the dance floor, disappearing down a number of hallways that extended from the main ballroom.

“Where are they going?” Iris asked, taking her third glass of champagne from a passing servant.

James refused a glass and waved the man off. “You don’t want to know,” he replied dramatically, hoping that Iris would simply giggle again and let the matter lie.

She threw back the champagne, coughing when the last of it hit her throat. “Monsieur St. Michelle, perhaps you would be so kind as to inform me?”

Clarissa remained calm, though James could see that she was nervous. She’d hardly said a word since they’d arrived and had spent most of her time staring at the floor.

She cleared her throat then addressed Iris. “Mademoiselle Bennett, it is enough that we are here,
oui
?”

“No, it is not,” Iris replied sharply as she seductively smoothed the silken skirt of her dress. “We had a bargain, you and I. You’ll do well to remember. Now, let us join the party.”

She tilted her chin in the air and set sail for the dance floor, with James and Clarissa behind.

“Dance with her,” Clarissa furiously whispered to James as she held her mask protectively to her face.

James thought the mask did wonders for her—or perhaps
it was the other way around? He couldn’t make out her violet eyes, and her delicate winged eyebrows were completely hidden from view. Those eyes, brimming with heat and vulnerability, her brow, gently furrowed as she’d struggled with her words the previous night—well, she’d undone him, that was the truth of it.

“Why should it be me? You’re a perfectly acceptable dancer from the little that I recall,” he countered, watching as the men in attendance began to notice Iris.

He’d not been completely blameless. Since holding her in his arms on the voyage from France, his resolve had begun to crumble. Putting Pettibone in his place at the lakeside had restored some of the strength that he’d lost to Clarissa. He hadn’t even realized it until he’d nearly throttled the man.

He’d stormed into her room intent on showing her who was in charge. And then he’d promptly fallen to his knees and asked—nay, begged—for his heart to be broken yet again.

“But you are accustomed to dancing the man’s part. I am not. It only makes sense,” Clarissa hissed, slowing as a man approached Iris.

He was tall and elegantly dressed; a man with a title—not, from the looks of it, a second son. His black hair was long and tied back in a queue. Rather old-fashioned to James’s way of thinking, but Iris did not seem to mind. She startled at the feel of the man’s hand as it wound about her upper arm and pulled her in toward his chest. And then she looked up into his face and smiled, tittering again when he whispered something in her ear. He handed her his glass of champagne and she greedily guzzled it, causing the man to gently applaud.

“I assure you, I will expire if the girl laughs one more time. Mark my words,” Clarissa said, her lip curling with disgust.

The man gestured toward the dance floor and pulled
Iris forward. She happily obliged, following the stranger onto the marble flooring, where a waltz had just begun.

“Follow me,” James commanded, stalking around a line of potted palms and heading toward the north end of the room. To her credit, Clarissa followed closely behind and said nothing, simply turned when needed and stopped when told.