Wicked Desires (Wicked Affairs, Book One) (16 page)

When she opened her eyes, Michael had dressed and stood watching her.

“You and William will leave for York in the morning.”

Chapter Nine

By noon, the carriage boot had been packed and the procession of footmen and maids had dwindled down to one, and that one held the door to the earl’s traveling carriage. Michael waited outside with William as Clarissa descended the front stairs.

She touched William’s arm. “Are you ready, darling?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Michael had only gotten home an hour ago, unable to bear the thought of seeing her. He still wore yesterday’s clothes and his eyes were rimmed red from a night of drinking. He had taken the time to splash water on his face and brush his hair back. He still smelled his own stench from a night at the whorehouse and the pungent odor one obtained from rubbing shoulders with wine, cards and reprobates.

She tugged on a pair of gloves without glancing at Michael. Her jaunty hat tilted toward one eye. Everything about her suggested class, privilege and propriety. And yet all he could wish for right then was a nod of her head and a subtle suggestion that she’d be amenable to another thorough fucking before she left for York.

Another confirmation that he’d had too much to drink.

His
congédiement
came with the utmost courtesy.

“Wish us well,” she said as she turned her cheek in dutiful acceptance of his kiss. He gripped her elbow to prevent her escape.

As William entered the carriage, he whispered to her, “Tell me Anne VanLandingham put you up to this and I will forgive you.”

She turned, aghast. Incredulous. “
You
will forgive
me
?”

She tore her arm away from his grip and stepped toward the footman. He assisted her into the carriage and she didn’t look back.

The door slammed shut. William poked his head through the open carriage window. “We’ll see you in a few weeks, Father. Don’t forget you promised we’d go hunting in the Highlands this summer.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

Clarissa stared out the opposite window, her jaw clenched.

He stepped forward. “Clarissa.”

“Goodbye, Michael.”

He gestured to the driver, the coached lurched and then shot forward and down the cobbled street.

Michael refused to look away until the carriage turned out of sight. It didn’t make him less of an ass, but he thought she might catch a glimpse of him as the carriage made the turn north.

And somehow she’d divine his apology without him succumbing to bended knee and futile begging.

She shouldn’t forgive him. His actions were beyond redeemable.

For the next two weeks, Michael spent every waking moment in the abysmal pit of self-flagellation. He dutifully wrote letters every other day, letters that grew shorter, the tone more terse. He had nothing to relay. The Season-ending balls did not hold his attention. Randall VanLandingham had sported a black eye for a few weeks. That Michael enjoyed, and wrote with some relish about the poor man’s accident.

His agitation grew as his remaining days in London dwindled.

The fault lay with him. For eighteen years, Clarissa had been ridiculously easy to please. Jewels at Christmas. Flowers at her birthday.

The woman had been obliviously happy, which made him happy.

Her mantra had always been, “I trust you completely.” He did not remember the last time she’d said that to him.

During the third week, a missive arrived for Clarissa. Michael didn’t hesitate to open it. His gaze was drawn to the womanly flourish at the bottom of the embossed paper.
AD.

“I’m sorry. We could not locate your ring.”

Alice DuPuis.

The temptation of Madame DuPuis’ brothel had withered like a plucked rose on a summer afternoon. Or a cock that belonged to an aged earl. Nothing at the whorehouse excited him, nor did he want to be reminded of the days he’d spent there fucking his wife. Humiliating her for what she’d done.

Some lesson he’d imparted.

Anger burned in his chest still. She could have been hurt. Caught. Publicly humiliated. Their family disgraced by her activities.

All for a few hours of worldly pleasure and the satisfaction of her impulsive curiosity.

No one cared when a man cheated. Michael had frequently talked to acquaintances in the sitting room of the whorehouse while he’d pursued his sexual interests.

It was different for women. They could be destroyed. Forever shunned. And all for what? To satisfy her curiosities about the positions and proclivities inflicted on whores?

His own embarrassment, or culpability, didn’t bear scrutiny.

His wife had known he was at Madame DuPuis’ bordello. How could he explain? Why hadn’t she accused him outright, demanded an answer for what she knew to be true?

When she’d asked about an affair, she’d been clutching at straws, but somehow, she’d found out the truth.

His pride had brought them to this chasm.

Had he told Clarissa about his inability to perform, none of this would have happened.

To prove he was still the virile man she loved, she would have gotten on her knees and sucked his cock until it saluted, just to prove him wrong. And he could have glibly responded,
but let’s be sure
and offered it to her a second time.

He could have confronted Martin DeLacy that night and had it out publicly. Let the world know that she was his property and not to be trifled with. Clarissa would have smiled and consoled, but secretly, would have been pleased that he’d defended her honor.

He’d failed her as a man and as a husband.

Michael dressed the next morning and left for Madame DuPuis’ after lunch. Alice greeted him with a professional air and invited him to the sitting room for a drink.

He dropped fifty pounds on the table between them.

“What’s this for?” she asked, as she handed him the brandy.

“Oh, I think you know.”

“You read the countess’s letter?”

“I handle all of my wife’s correspondence when she’s away.” He sipped, keeping a watchful gaze on Alice’s expressionless face. “How did my wife come to lose her ring here, of all places? What brought her to your front door?”

She picked up the coins.

“Why haven’t you asked your wife? It might have cost you less money and time. Certainly less aggravation.”

“She’s in York, or I would have. Let me help. The first night she came here, what did she want?”

“Her husband.”

“Me? She was looking for me?”

“She followed you here.”

“Ah.” He sat back in the chair. Another failing. He wasn’t as clever as he’d imagined. Alice sat calmly, her drink nestled between her hands, propped on a protruding bit of roundness between her breasts and her lap.

“So then her curiosity got the best of her? What is he doing, she asks? Can I take a peek at the wickedness? Would I be just shocked,
shocked
, at the immoral turpitude?” He sighed. “So she saw me. Then what?”

Alice’s lips puckered. She sipped at her drink. “I’m not sure what your wife sees in you.
Other
than you being an earl.”

He had nearly said those exact words. The insult stung from an elderly abbess. “Explain.”

“Do you truly think a woman with your wife’s dignity would come here for entertainment when she could crook her little finger and have all of the single men and half the married men in London lined up to fuck her?” Alice nodded her head. One eyebrow winged. “Hmm?”

“Why else would she come here?”

“Oh, I forgot you are man.”

Michael frowned.

“Men think the basis for every decision resolves around sex. When will I next get sex? What can I do to ensure that I will get sex? Who can I next get sex from?”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“The
woman
you are married to doesn’t think that way. She thinks only about you.”

“I wasted my time coming here. Thank you, Madame DuPuis. Spend your fifty pounds wisely.”

They stood, Madame DuPuis looking like a Christmas elf next to him. “If I could direct you to certain shops in the neighborhood, I might also advise you how to spend
your
next fifty pounds wisely.”

“And why would I do that?”

Alice sighed and didn’t bother containing the roll of her eyes, as if she were correcting an errant child. “Your wife’s ring? Isn’t that why you came to see me?”

“Yes.”

Michael took the addresses and started his search that afternoon. It took eight days before he found the backstreet pawnshop that had purchased the ring. It cost more than fifty pounds to buy it back, but Michael believed it was worth every pence.

He stowed the ring in his waistcoat pocket, feeling as if he’d done something right for the first time in over a year.

* * * * *

The carriage ride to York was interminable. However, the weather cooperated and he arrived in reasonably good spirits. The journey provided ample opportunity to perfect his apology.

At the country estate, they didn’t stand on ceremony, only the footman greeted him, but before he could disembark from the carriage, Harry and Andrew came running down the steps. Harry would be thirteen next month, Andrew fifteen in the fall.

Michael’s instructions for William involved hard labor. He believed William would be knee-deep in some indescribable filth otherwise known as a pile of shit about now.

As the boys crashed into him, he caught a glimpse of Clarissa at the top of the steps. He held her gaze for a moment before turning his attention to his children.

“Father, come see the new colts. Dudley says they’re prime flesh,” Andrew said. “Maybe you’ll let me pick one out for myself. ’Course Dudley will have to help me break her.”

“Me too. I want the colt with white legs.”

“You can’t have it, blockhead. It’s a stallion. He’ll tear you to pieces if you try to ride him,” Andrew said.

They grabbed Michael’s hands and dragged him toward the horse stalls. Michael glanced back over his shoulders and attempted an apologetic smile. He thought she might have smiled in return, but he couldn’t be sure.

The boys nattered on until they had him at the stalls. Inside, William hefted the pitchfork and dumped a foul-smelling batch of manure and straw in the pile outside the door.

When Will saw the trio, he stopped and braced his arm against the long handle. “Hello, Father.”

“Dudley got you right to work, I see.”

“Will’s been crabby ever since,” Harry added.

“It’s been like this for almost five weeks. I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t you think I’ve been punished enough?”

Michael tousled Harry’s full head of hair. “What do you think, boys?”

“No!” they both answered in unison. Will glared at his brothers.

“There you have it, Will. Now where are those new colts?”

The remainder of the afternoon was spent examining horseflesh, discussing the tenants, crops and weather with Dudley and others, all the while Harry and Andrew followed him around the barns and outbuildings asking questions about London and boasting of their performance in academics and athletics at their school.

He hadn’t seen the boys since they left for school in January. Harry had his hand or arm touching Michael at every turn. He didn’t mind, soon Harry would be as indifferent to their father as his brothers had already become.

As he went through the motions of the concerned earl, he glanced toward the house several times. He supposed he wanted to see Clarissa or at least be assured that she was as anxious as he about their reunion.

She’d appeared ever the countess as she stood in an immaculate gown and perfectly coiffed hair. Her only ornamentation was a gold bracelet that she’d received from her mother before she’d passed away.

If there was anything to be happy about, it was that she had been there to greet him at all.

He didn’t think it would hurt to have the protection of his sons as he sought her out. He hoisted Harry up with the help of his son’s sprightly leap, and swung him onto one shoulder. “How about we go see your mother?”

* * * * *

Clarissa punched a needle in and out of a linen pillowcase, attempting an intricate design of birds and flowers. Her hands shook, the resulting stitches uneven and amateurish.

The noise in the foyer signaled Michael’s arrival. His strong voice asked for her location and the three of them stumbled into the room together.

“Mama! Papa says I get to go on the hunting trip this year,” Harry exclaimed.

She set her embroidery aside. “Oh, he does?”

Michael bent down and pressed a kiss to her lips. Then sat beside her before Harry slid into his lap. Andrew sat with more dignity on a chair opposite. “He does. And he’s thinking the countess should come along. It promises to be a very quiet and relaxing couple of weeks.”