The Sinner Who Seduced Me (27 page)

“You are beautiful, James,” she whispered, lowering herself until her breasts skimmed his chest. “And you’re mine.”

“Promise me that you’ll always love me just as you do right here, right now.” His voice was thick with emotion.

She rocked back and forth, her breasts bouncing against his chest and creating the most delicious friction. “I promise.”

He cupped her breasts in his hands and kneaded roughly, coaxing a moan of pleasure from Clarissa. He tugged at her nipples and she cried out, the sensation both shocking and stimulating.

“More?” he murmured.

Clarissa licked her lips, the haze of pleasure threatening to pull her under. “More,” she demanded as his arms wrapped around her.

He took one breast into his mouth and sucked, whirling his tongue around the nipple then biting gently.

When he released her, Clarissa gripped his shoulder with frustration. “More! Now!”

“Patience,” he murmured before taking the other breast in his mouth and repeating the sweet agony.

“You torture me on purpose,” she groaned, a second moan of ecstasy escaping from her lips.

James bit down on the nipple then swirled his tongue around the sensitive nub. “Turnabout is fair play, Clarissa,” he replied as he stroked his palm over her backside.

She caught her breath and sat up. “Really?” She continued to ride him but gently increased her speed.

“Is that the best you can do?” James teased. His voice was rougher, and the accelerated rhythm had his fingers flexing against Clarissa’s hips.

“You know me better than that.” She threw her head back and exposed her long, elegant neck, then ran her fingers from her throat to her breasts, caressing them lavishly. James grunted with approval as she drew her hands lower across her stomach then below to where he ended and she began, stroking her swollen folds slowly.

“All right. You win,” he insisted, his breath ragged and his voice full of need. “Please, come to me.”

Clarissa dropped her head and looked into his eyes. “As you wish.”

She reached behind and grasped his testicles, watching as his mouth contorted. She squeezed gently and he let out a hoarse moan. She squeezed again and he bucked, then sat up and dragged her back with him until he slammed into the headboard.

“Widen your legs,” he commanded, his hands encircling her calves and helping her. “Now hold on.”

Clarissa threw her arms around his shoulders as James’s hips lifted and fell, taking her with him. She matched his passion thrust for thrust. He dug his hands into the bed at his sides, supporting their weight as he drove her closer and closer to climax.

He took her mouth with his, his tongue roughly claiming hers. She let the pleasure take her over, the smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth, the feel of him inside her too much to deny.

Clarissa broke the kiss and tucked her head against his shoulder, holding on as if her life depended on it. “James, I cannot. I cannot hold on. Please,” she panted, her lips touching the shell of his ear.

“Then let go.”

And she did. Clarissa squeezed her eyes shut as she
gave in to the driving need, her skin suddenly sensitive to the very air in the room. She wrapped her legs tightly about James’s waist and cried out over and over again, sure that she would never recover.

James wrapped her in his arms and rolled, his arms supporting him as he drove deep inside of her again and again.

Clarissa raked her nails across his back possessively. “Come to me. Now.”

James shuddered hard and let out a muffled groan as sweet release took control of him. He shifted sideways, taking Clarissa with him, wrapped in his arms. “I love you, Clarissa. I always have. And I always will.”

Clarissa stroked his hair and intertwined her fingers in his soft locks. “You have my heart, James. Truly, deeply, madly, forever, you have my heart.”

“Well, I now see why your services are in such demand,” Mr. Bennett said as he stood in the studio and admired the finished portrait.

Completing the painting had required continuous work. Clarissa rose in the morning, stopping to eat only enough to keep her strength up, then retreated to the studio, where she would paint until she could no longer keep her eyes open.

James arrived every day with a tray of food, once for lunch, and again for dinner. Clarissa had begged him to keep his visits brief, his presence in the studio hardly conducive to work. He’d obliged—though his nightly demands for attention more than made up for any time lost during the day. They’d made love more times than Clarissa’s exhausted mind could count, his need for her rivaling hers for him.

Clarissa suspected their heated coupling was only intensified by James’s worry over the disappearance of Pettibone. The footman hadn’t been seen since that evening at the Eagle’s Nest and none of the servants nor grooms or gardeners knew where the man had gone.

Of course, James and Clarissa felt certain he’d vanished after learning James and Iris had emerged from their attack alive. But knowing why Pettibone had gone offered little consolation. He would return, it was only a matter of when.

“Your daughter is
très
beautiful, Monsieur Bennett,
which makes my work a true pleasure,” Clarissa replied, joining Bennett before the painting.

The man was right. The portrait had turned out magnificently—in fact, Clarissa felt sure it was her best work to date. Iris’s choice in dress and backdrop had been perfect. The pale pink of her silk gown, the warm, wholesome hue of her youthful skin, the deep, fiery red of her ruby earbobs, the glistening gold in her blond hair. But it was more than the marriage of color and light. Clarissa had captured the essence of Iris, subtly emphasizing her features and personality for a portrait that was both natural and flattering. Her eyes held the intelligence and danger that made Iris sparkle, her gently upturned chin conveyed the will of iron that she possessed, and the slight hint of a smile spoke volumes of the girl’s insatiable desire for life.

Clarissa widened her stance to match Bennett’s. “She’s quite a girl,
c’est vrai
, Monsieur Bennett,” she added, realizing that every detail she’d just made a mental note of could be either positive or negative, depending on how one looked at it.

Mr. Bennett turned to Clarissa and let out a hearty chuckle. “Now, that is an understatement, monsieur.”

“Perhaps,” Clarissa replied, smiling though her tone was serious. “But I would not want to be the one to underestimate the young lady, monsieur. Would you?”

For the first time in their acquaintance, Clarissa witnessed Mr. Bennett’s countenance fall. His amiable nature turned to disappointment. “Have you any children?”

“No, Monsieur Bennett—at least, not yet.”

“I’ve two—Iris and her older sister, Rose,” Mr. Bennett began, turning to look at the painting again. “It’s a gift, monsieur, do not misunderstand me for one moment. But it’s difficult, even when you have all the money in the world at your disposal. Children need
more than toys and fancy dresses. They need one’s time. I’m afraid that Mrs. Bennett and I managed Rose properly, but Iris? There just was not enough time.”

Clarissa wondered at the man’s use of the word “managed” in relation to his daughters, sure that it perfectly illustrated much of what was wrong within the father’s relationship with his child. But Mr. Bennett did not need to be told what he’d done wrong. He needed to know that there was so much he could do right, even still.

“Monsieur, let me tell you of a person. This person,” Clarissa began, picturing James in her mind’s eye, “was attentive, encouraging, interested in who I was and what captured my imagination—this person was everything to me. And then this person deeply hurt me, and left. I was angry and bitter. Devastated. For a time I blamed all of life’s woes on this person. But do you know what?”

“What?” Mr. Bennett asked hesitantly, keeping his gaze firmly affixed to the painting.

Clarissa reached out and put her hand on the man’s shoulder. “If this person were to walk back into my life this very day, I would forgive. There is nothing that can be done about the past, but the future? Well, that is up to you. Do not waste any more time, Monsieur Bennett.”

He heaved a deep, mournful sigh and finally looked Clarissa in the eye. “Thank you, Monsieur St. Michelle—for everything.”

She had no way of knowing whether the man would take her advice to heart. But Clarissa could, at the very least, be thankful for the ability to not only articulate such words, but mean them. Her time at Kenwood House, though rife with danger and emotional trials, had given her a gift she’d quite likely never have found otherwise: peace of mind.

For five long years she’d blamed her father and James for everything that was wrong with her life, thinking
that doing so managed, in some small way, to make her feel better. Opening her heart and taking responsibility for all that she was, both good and bad, had forced her to realize the truth and brought her to this valuable moment in time.

“You’re welcome, Monsieur Bennett. And thank you for this opportunity. My days spent at Kenwood House are ones I will think back on often, I assure you,” Clarissa replied sincerely, holding out her hand.

Bennett took it in his and shook it vigorously, his jovial demeanor slowly returning. “Oh,” he said suddenly, reaching into the inner pocket of his bottle-green waistcoat. “I nearly forgot.” He retrieved a key and handed it to Clarissa. “You earned every last shilling, and more.”

Clarissa took the small silver key and looked at it with keen curiosity. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I’m a banker, monsieur,” Bennett teased, elbowing Clarissa in the ribs. “I’d hardly expect you to travel with such a vast sum in your possession. The moment I secured your services I withdrew funds from an account I have in Edinburgh and had it sent to Paris.”

Clarissa forced a smile, her stomach turning at the news. “The key is to a safe, I presume?”

He elbowed her again, clearly amused. “Hardly. Safes are opened with combinations, St. Michelle. No, the key is to a strongbox at the Banque de France. Within the box you will find the combination to a safe located at the bank that holds your payment. It always pays to be
safe,
” he finished, winking at his banker’s wit.

“Thank you for such forethought, Monsieur Bennett,” Clarissa replied in what she hoped was a sincere tone. “Now, I fear we must be off for France. The Comte de Claudel awaits me in Paris.”

“Yes, Iris mentioned that you had to leave immediately,” he replied. “Nasty stuff, crossing open waters. I bid you a safe journey, monsieur—oh, and do say goodbye
to Iris before you go. She’s grown fond of you, I believe.”

Clarissa nodded smoothly in agreement, her concern over the complication growing, though she kept it to herself.

“Will it present a problem?” Clarissa asked.

James eyed the key from Bennett. “I hope not,” he answered as the two made their way down the grand staircase.

He’d disclosed his connection with the Young Corinthians, but little else beyond that, hoping to keep Clarissa as safe as possible. The less she knew, the safer she’d be. “Though the sooner we return to Paris, the better.”

They approached a maid who was busily dusting one of the wall sconces in the foyer. “Mademoiselle Bennett?” James inquired.

“The library, in the east wing,” she replied, gesturing toward a corridor on their right.

James moved down the hall with Clarissa struggling to keep up with his long strides. Pettibone’s disappearance had troubled James for many reasons, chief among them being he preferred to have his enemy in his sights at all times.

Pettibone’s disappearance had made it nearly impossible to ensure that the household was safe. James’s inability to identify the Les Moines agents within the staff was maddening. He’d almost hoped at least one of them would come forward with questions concerning Pettibone. After all, if James was correct in his assumptions, Pettibone had disappeared and left his agents without any indication of what to do next. But none had made an attempt to contact James. Not surprising, he supposed, as Pettibone had more than likely spread rumors concerning James’s place within the organization. If it
were him, James would have kept his mouth shut, just as they were doing now.

He and Clarissa passed through the portrait gallery and continued on. “Remember, we’ve very little time, so be quick,” James reminded her.

“I believe it’s you who will need to be brief,” she replied teasingly. “Iris has formed quite an attachment to you,” she continued.

James grunted as they approached the library.

“James,” Clarissa pleaded, grabbing his arm and forcing him to stop. “All humor aside, I would ask that you be sensitive to the girl’s feelings. You saved her life—she’s not soon to forget that fact, nor how it’s made her think about her own life. Please …” She paused, looking deeply into his eyes. “James, be kind,” she finished in a hushed whisper.

He couldn’t refuse Clarissa—especially when he knew she was right. Over the last week Iris had demonstrated a marked change in her demeanor. She’d become a gracious, sympathetic, and sensitive young lady. She was thoughtful in her actions, considerate with her requests, and accommodating with not only Clarissa and James, but the household as a whole.