A Little Bit Sinful

chapter Thirteen


Clarissa stood in the room that was now her bedchamber. Justin’s townhome was not much different than her family’s, but this was the adjoining room to the master bedchamber. This was where the lady of the house slept, where the wife slept.

She was the wife. The weight of everything that had occurred in the last few days hadn’t yet settled on her. Or at least she hadn’t yet been able to work through everything as of yet.

After her tour of Rodale’s, they’d come home, and had a delicious dinner in a small private dining room. After that he’d asked her to play for him again, but this time he’d kept his distance, preferring to listen to her from a chair. Admittedly, the playing had relaxed her some, but she did have to wonder if now that they were married, his desire for her had somehow waned.

The door opened and she jolted. But it was not Justin, instead a maid.

“Pardon me, my lady, my name is Mary and if you’ll follow me, Mr. Rodale thought you might enjoy the adjoining room better,” she said with a slight curtsey.

Clarissa nodded and followed the girl. It was odd that Justin would send for her to come to his bed, rather than simply come get her himself, but she was unsure of how these things should work. But instead of leading her into another bedchamber, the maid had brought her into a bathing chamber. It was a small room, covered in wood paneling and there in against the wall sat a large white tub with metal claw feet.

“I took the liberty of filling it with warm water for you.” She pointed to a small table next to the tub. “There is a tray there with scented soaps and hair rinses. Whatever you should need. There is also a bell if you find you require some assistance.”

Clarissa took everything in. Her family’s townhome in London was very nice, and Ashford estate in the country equally so, but she had never seen a bathing chamber before. “Thank you,” she said.

“May I assist you out of your clothes?” Mary asked.

“Yes, please. A bath sounds quite lovely right now.” It would seem that Justin had thought of everything. She looked around the room whilst the maid worked on her buttons. There was another door on the opposite side of the small room. “Where does that door lead?” she asked.

“To Master Rodale’s chamber.”

So this is what separated their rooms. A shared bathing chamber. Was that common among married couples? She did not know since most houses were not yet equipped with such rooms. After Mary had unpinned her hair, Clarissa swept it to the side and put it in one long braid.

Once she was undressed, the maid held her hand and helped her into the deep tub. Warm water lapped at her as she settled inside its wet cocoon. Tension melted off her. She tilted her head back against the metal edge of the tub and closed her eyes. After the door had closed, she took a peek at the various bottles on the tray. Rose water, lavender oil, lemon soap, whatever she could have wanted right at her fingertips. She took some of the lavender oil and poured a few drops into the water. The sweet perfume wafted over her, relaxing her further. Again she settled into the water.

She wasn’t certain how long she lay there. A door opened and she looked up expecting to find Mary there to assist her out, instead Justin stood over her. His amber eyes took in the length of her. Though submerged in water, he no doubt could see her every curve.

She resisted the urge to cover herself. He was her husband and therefore had every right to look upon her body. “This is lovely,” she forced herself to say. It was not untrue. The room was a pleasant surprise.

He smiled. “More lovely than I could have imagined.”

Heat flooded her cheeks.

He came to stand beside her, picked up her braided hair. “May I?”

“Of course.”

He methodically unbraided her hair. She sat up so that her shoulders and breasts were above the water. He retrieved the pitcher. “Tilt your head back,” he said. Then he poured the warm water over her head.

Chills started in her scalp and ran down her body raising the tiny hairs along her arms and tightening her nipples. He massaged soap into her hair, his fingers working up a lather. She closed her eyes and reveled in the sensations. He’d obviously chosen the lemon soap as the citrus smell soon surrounded her. And then he was once again pouring warm water over her hair to rinse out the soap. Her scalp still tingled from his ministrations. She wrung out the water from her hair and re-braided it so it hung in a long damp chain.

“Are you ready to get out?” he asked.

“Yes, the water is getting a little cold now.”

He opened a cupboard and pulled out a blanket, then went back over to her and wrapped her in it as she climbed out of the tub. The blanket cocooned her in warmth.

“Come,” he said, and he held a hand out to her.

…

He pulled her into his bedchamber. His mouth met hers in a hungry kiss and he forgot all about the situation of their marriage. They might have married out of necessity, but that didn’t change his desire for her. And now she was his. Only his.

Her tongue slid against his and his erection pressed painfully against his trousers. God, how he wanted this woman. They kissed for several moments. He reached between them and pulled the blanket off her. It slid to the floor. He tilted her chin up so he could see her face. He grabbed hold of her shoulders. His hands ran up and down her arms. “You want me, Chrissy, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He took a shuddering breath. She’d alleviated most of his concerns in that one answer. He supposed there would always be part of him that wondered if she’d wished George had been the one to marry her. Justin knew he didn’t deserve Clarissa Kincaid, but damned if he didn’t long for her to want him.

He took a step back to see her, admire her body. Everything he’d seen in the bathtub had been through water. Right now, in this moment, it was pure Chrissy and he wanted to take his time and memorize every curve of her body.

Her breasts were perfectly shaped with rosy nipples that budded for his pleasure. His eyes followed down her torso past her waist to her curvaceous hips. He didn’t let his gaze dip any further, not yet. With one hand he twirled her around so her backside faced him. “I’d ask if anyone has ever told you that you have a delicious bottom, but I’m fairly certain I know the answer already,” he said.

She looked over her shoulder, her brows angled in surprise. “I’ve always thought it was a little too big.”

He ran his hands over the rounded flesh. “I disagree, it’s perfect.” While his hands continued to fondle her generous bottom, he nibbled at her neck. Looking up, he realized they stood directly in front of his dressing mirror. Clarissa’s head leaned back against his chest and her eyes were closed in an expression of delight.

He pulled his hand back, then swatted her bottom playfully. Her eyes flew open and he waited for her reaction. She didn’t cry out in pain, instead a shy, yet sexy smile slid into place that had him itching to take her right now.

His eyes took in the full length of her and he was certain in that moment he’d never seen a more beautiful woman. She was perfect in every way.

He swatted her bottom again and she cried out this time, but with pleasure.

Now. He wanted her now. There was time later to take things slow and easy. He kissed and suckled her neck while he removed his trousers and shirt until he too stood nude before the mirror. The contrast in their skin was mesmerizing. Hers so creamy white compared to his darkened skin covered in dark hair.

He led her to the bed, allowing his hands to continue to play all over her body eliciting moans from her. They stood next to the bed, but he didn’t lay her down yet. If he did that, it would be over too soon. This night would only happen once; he wanted it to be as pleasurable for her as possible.

He reached around her body and cupped her breasts as he nibbled the tender flesh at her neck. She leaned back against him, her bare bottom pressed against his erection. He looped one arm around her waist and held her close to him.

“I want you, Chrissy,” he said against her ear.

She nodded, but had no words in response.

His hand slid down her stomach. She sucked in a breath. His fingers parted between her pubic hair and he found her slick with want. He closed his eyes to try to reign in his own desire so he could last for her, have time to pleasure her.

He turned her swiftly so he could kiss her again. She met his kiss with a fierce passion, a passion only for him. This woman, she was his perfect fit. He lifted her gently and put her on the bed, then climbed on beside her. She smelled of lavender, lemon, and desire.

He kissed her. His finger found her wetness and the tiny nub and he moved against it.

She parted her legs further opening herself to him. “Yes, yes,” she hissed.

He positioned himself atop her and moved to her opening, then kissing her gently, he pushed himself into her. She was slick for him, so tight.

“Oh God, Chrissy.”

He kept his hand between them moving against her while she adjusted to his invasion. When she raised her legs, wrapped them around his waist, he knew she was ready.

Gone were his thoughts of trying to take things slowly. He pushed in and out loving the deepness of her. Faster and harder he pushed until he heard her yell his name then saw her clench the sheets while her body shook with her release. It only took one more thrust before he spilled his seed. He leaned against her back for a moment listening to her heavy breathing and quiet moans. He’d never felt desire this intense with any other woman.

He lay down beside her, pulled the coverlet up to their waists. He traced his finger along her collarbone.

“That made me feel a little bit sinful,” she said with a delicious grin.

“Nothing sinful about it. We are married now.” He pulled her against him so her head rested against his chest. Something in that moment felt so right he nearly stood to leave, but he forced himself to stay where he was. He couldn’t run any longer. Not from Chrissy. She deserved better.

And while she’d deserved better than him, she had married him so he’d have to prove to her and everyone else that he could be a good husband.

…

Clarissa stirred her tea and listened to Ella’s mother, Lady Weaver, catalogue all of the fashion mistakes from the soiree they had attended the previous evening. She had been invited over to their house for refreshments that afternoon and Clarissa had welcomed the outing. She knew that it was Ella’s way of letting her know that simply because she had married Justin did not mean she was no longer welcomed in their home.

“I don’t know how it’s possible for Eleanor Banks to find that many dresses in so many shades of green. And she doesn’t look good in any of them. It’s a mystery,” Lady Weaver said. She tapped her spoon onto the side of her teacup, then took a sip.

In the carriage on the way here, Clarissa had decided what she must do. She could not stand by and allow people to say disparaging things about her husband. It had been one thing when they’d been friends, but now she bore his name. She had an obligation to support him. She thought back to the evening she and Ella had overheard that conversation about Justin and the mystery of his mother’s identity. The women discussing it had been quite nasty. But if it was true, what one of them had said, that Justin’s mother was French royalty, if Clarissa could prove that, then it might change how people saw him, how they treated him.

She considered exactly how she would ask her question, but she knew if there was information on Justin’s mother, then Lady Weaver would know, or at the very least know whom they could ask.

“How was the wedding, dear?” she asked Clarissa.

The night she shared in Justin’s bed with filled her mind. She felt the heat of blush in her cheeks and she brought the teacup to her lips. “It was quick, nothing too exciting. I suppose that’s the way when you have a rush marriage.” She had spoken too quickly, jumping from one sentence to the next. “Thank you for inviting me over for tea.”

Ella eyed her suspiciously, but Clarissa merely smiled in return.

Now was as good a time as any so her friend wouldn’t pry in front of her mother. “I was wondering. Several nights ago Ella and I overheard a conversation about my,” she took a breath, “husband.”

“Yes, yes, handsome devil, that one,” Lady Weaver said. “Consider yourself lucky to have snagged him.”

Snagged him, as if their marriage hadn’t been the result of a damaging situation. As if Clarissa had merely caught his eye, he’d courted her, and proposed like a true gentleman. “Yes, well, these women the other evening were discussing the identity of his mother and one of them suggested she was French royalty.” She took another sip of her tea and did her best to sound casual. “Have you ever heard such a thing?”

“Well, let me think. He looks to be about six and twenty or so.” She tapped her fingers on her skirt and the muffled drumming made Clarissa nervous. “I do recall there being a large group of French nobles that came here to escape from the war. That would have been in the late 40s, I believe.” She nodded as if agreeing with herself. “Yes, that’s right, they were having another revolution in France, you see. We had several French families that came and stayed and attended many Society functions.” She frowned. “I can’t recall any of them being royalty though. I’m certain I would have remembered a princess.”

“But they were here in London?”

“Oh yes, at least for a Season, perhaps two. Many of the women, Englishwomen, that is, weren’t too keen on the visitors. They thought the French women were intent on stealing all of the men.” She took another sip, then waved her hand. “Poppycock, it was. Only one of them married an Englishman. Lord Forrester, his wife is French. But the rest,” she waved her hand around, “they all went back to France, I suppose, once the revolution had settled down.” She tilted her head. “I hadn’t yet met your father yet, Ella, but it was the end of that Season that he took notice of me.” She smiled warmly.

“I suppose one of those women could have been his mother,” Clarissa said.

“Now remind me again who his father is?” Ella’s mother asked. “I know he’s illegitimate,” she said in a whisper even though the three of them sat alone in her own drawing room. “But I can’t place him.”

“The Duke of Chanceworth. His brother Monroe is now the duke, but they shared a father,” Clarissa said.

“Ah yes. Now let me think, I never did garner the attention of any dukes, but I do remember him. Dashing, powerful yet he always seemed so stern. I believe he was betrothed to Millicent, or perhaps they were already married then.” She shook her head. “I wish I remembered more.”

“You’ve remembered plenty,” Clarissa said. So now she knew that more than one French woman had been in London during that time. Any one of them could have had an affair with the duke and gotten pregnant with Justin. Lady Forrester might be just who she needed to talk with to uncover more information.

…

They sat in the carriage on the way to ball. Clarissa fidgeted with her hands, the satin of her gloves felt as heavy as wool tonight.

“What did you want to ask me?”

Clarissa looked up at Justin. “I beg your pardon?”

“Earlier today you said you had something you wanted to ask me, then the messenger arrived and we never continued the conversation.”

Clarissa took a deep breath. “Was your mother really French royalty?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know where that rumor got started, but no, she was not French royalty.”

“People talk.” She shrugged. “I don’t recall you ever speaking of her, so I didn’t know. And I figured, as your wife, that now we should get to know one another better.”

“My mother, or the woman I knew as my mother, Eloise Rodale, was a music teacher, or at least she had been before I was born.” His words were even, almost as if he spoke of someone he knew rather than his own life. “She was not, as it turns out, my actual mother, only the woman who raised me until her death. That’s when I went to live at Chanceworth Hall.”

She was quiet a moment, thinking on his words. Had he been devastated when he’d found out the woman he’d lived with since infancy hadn’t been his mother? The urge to embrace him nearly overwhelmed her, but she stifled it else she really cause damage to her name. “But your other mother, she could have been French royalty?”

“That’s highly unlikely.”

“You do not know who she was?” she asked. She watched his features, the way his jaw tensed and how his knuckles whitened as his hands squeezed into fists. “At all?”

“I do not,” he said.

She’d inadvertently hit upon a sore spot for him.

“Not for lack of searching though. I’ve been looking for her, or rather her identity, for years.”

“I could help,” she said.

He gave her a sideways grin. “Help me find my mother?”

“Yes, I’m certain I could prove useful.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“I am your wife,” she said, hoping that was enough. She certainly empathized with him. She knew what it was like to grow up without a mother. “I never had a mother,” she said, “not really. Rebecca was there for me as was Aunt Maureen, but even though I never met her, I’ve always missed my mother.”

He eyed her for a long while as if estimating whether he believed her or not. “It’s very sweet of you, Chrissy, but there’s nothing you can do.”