A Little Bit Sinful

chapter Eight


They stood in silence, looking out at the night sky. He hadn’t denied anything she’d said about him courting Betsy Riverton. And she wasn’t certain he’d taken her completely serious when she’d suggested he court her. She wasn’t even certain where that had come from. It had seemed like the best suggestion, though. She wouldn’t get hurt. This was Justin, he was a friend and nothing more.

Despite her obvious attraction to him, she shouldn’t develop any certain feelings toward him. He was not the sort of man Rebecca would have chosen for her. Clarissa needed to keep that in mind. Especially since she’d just proposed a scenario that would require the two of them spend more time together.

He looked over, gave her a half smile. “I have discovered some information on George. You wanted me to tell you.”

She grabbed a handful of her skirts, bunching the fabric, then thought better of it and smoothed it out again. “I can tell from your tone that you are not pleased with what you discovered.”

He eyed her for a moment, then was quiet for several more before he finally spoke. “I shall make a bargain with you.”

She nodded unsure of what he would ask of her.

“Cease your obsession with George Wilbanks.”

Her breath caught. Was he suggesting that he wished to replace George in her mind, in her favor? As wrong as it might be, she knew there was a part of her that hoped so. “I am not obsessed. I am merely dedicated to the notion of marrying him. He would be a good husband for me.”

“No,” Justin shook his head, “a viscount would be a good match for you, but not him.”

“I am not so certain.”

“I can prove to you that he is the wrong sort of man for you.”

His words rang with truth, and she knew she’d be inclined to believe him. But to do so would be to ignore the advice of the one person who had done her best to steer Clarissa in the right direction. “Precisely how can you do that?”

“I can take you to Rafferty’s.”

“I don’t think I know what that means,” she said.

“It’s another gaming hell. One on the banks of the Thames, next to the docks,” he said.

She gasped. “You can do no such thing. I would be ruined.” Though obviously she was already ruined. Still, to go to such a place with him, without a chaperone, it would be a blow to her reputation from which she could never recover.

“We could go without anyone seeing you.”

She considered his offer. She was curious, she couldn’t deny that.

“Chrissy, it’s important. You need to know the truth about this man before you agree to marry him.”

He was quite serious and his demeanor made her nervous. Anticipation fluttered to life in her stomach. “When?”

“Tonight. Do you think you can sneak out of your house without your brother or aunt being the wiser?”

Her heart thundered at the idea of sneaking out again. She’d done so on a handful of occasions recently and the adventure never ceased to thrill her. That old familiar pull toward adventure was a temptation she’d had to fight her entire life. Rebecca had helped her with that when she’d been alive, but since her death, Clarissa had battled on her own. “I don’t know.”

“It’s your choice. But I do know that you won’t believe me, you won’t believe the truth about your beloved George unless you see it with your own eyes,” Justin said.

She realized with alarming clarity that this entire conversation had been about George. Somehow she’d been so lost in idea of an adventure that she’d forgotten what it was all about. He knew something about George that would change her mind about pursuing him for her husband. She supposed she should go into the marriage with her eyes open. “Very well, I accept your invitation. What time shall I be ready?”

…

Soon Clarissa would be with him, ensconced in a darkened carriage as they drove London to the dirtier part of town. She hadn’t asked him anything about the night in her bedchamber, instead she’d jested with him, flirted. And then she’d asked him to court her, an obvious reaction to seeing him with another woman. Still he knew that Chrissy didn’t know what she asked of him. He could easily pretend to be interested in another girl, but to pretend to court her, he couldn’t do that and know he’d never have her. So he’d changed the subject.

Convincing her to come tonight had been easier than he’d first thought it would be. She obviously believed he was wrong about her beloved George, or at least she wanted to continue believing him to be this pinnacle of gentlemanliness that she held him to.

Justin had tried to be discreet and make inquires of the man, but he hadn’t discovered much other than he preferred Rafferty’s and had a penchant for boxing. Clipps following the man had been the only thing that had shed any light on the situation. Justin wondered if Clarissa knew her would-be groom enjoyed a good fight. Or that he chose prostitutes for his evening entertainment?

Once Clarissa saw the man she believed she wanted to marry on the docks at Rafferty’s she might begin to see that George Wilbanks was the very wrong sort of man for her.

…

Clarissa checked once more behind her to ensure no one followed. The darkened stairwell that led to the servant’s entrance in the back of the house was a perfect way to get in and out of the estate. She opened the door and was met with darkness. Justin, true to his word, appeared as if out of nowhere.

“Ready?” he asked.

She took a deep breath. “Yes.” She was determined to prove Justin wrong. George was not the wrong man for her. He couldn’t be the wrong man for her because if she didn’t marry George, who else would pick her? If after all of these years of everyone expecting them to marry and then he picks someone else, then no one would want her. She was already nearly on the shelf, as it were. She was running out of time and had already run out of options. No, she couldn’t explain his reluctance to marry her, but she knew there had to be a reason. A good reason too. So she’d agreed to this journey knowing full well if she got caught, there would be no explaining this one. It was worth the risk. George was worth the risk.

Justin grabbed her hand and pulled her into the darkness in front of them. She should probably feel more fear than she did, but this was no time to question such things. She was on a quest.

They reached the carriage and Justin helped her inside, then followed her and closed the door behind him. He sat across from her, a walking stick rested against the seat next to him. It was an opulent carriage, with plush upholstery and a soft leather finish. His height was even more noticeable in the small confines. His broad shoulders seemed to take up nearly the entire bench across from her and his gloved hand resting on the walking stick looked so big, masculine. That hand had been on her body. Her cheeks heated and she shifted in her seat.

They rumbled down the alleyway behind her family’s townhome.

“So we’re going to the docks, to a place called Rafferty’s?” she asked.

“You had never heard of it, until I mentioned it?” he asked.

“No, of course not. It is not the sort of thing people would discuss in front of a lady.” She pulled back the tiny curtain and peered out the window. London’s darkened streets slowly passed by. “And this is where you say George goes?”

“Yes, several nights a week.”

“What sort of establishment is this Rafferty’s? I mean should I find it sinful that he goes to this place?”

“It’s a gaming hell.”

“Like yours?”

“Not like mine. We share some things. We both offer games with high stakes, as any gambling establishment would, but there are some significant differences. Mine, for instance, is not in a wretched, filthy and dangerous part of town.”

“I’m certain that if this is true, if George goes to this place, then there is a logical explanation,” she said. She crossed her arms over her chest and prayed she was right. She had not been inside of Rodale’s that night she’d stood outside, but she’d seen enough to know that it was opulent, much like this carriage.

Justin had built a massive fortune, and likely had more money than her own family. Arguably George could find whatever he needed at Rodale’s, which begged the question of why he would frequent a gaming establishment on the docks of the Thames where everyone, even genteel ladies, knew that opium was rampant and prostitution was readily available.

“What is it about George?” Justin asked. “Besides Rebecca’s recommendation?”

“We’ve known each other a very long time. He’s a gentleman. We are an excellent match.”

“Yes, an excellent match,” Justin said, then he fell silent for a long time. “You say all of that as if you’ve rehearsed it for a long while. Are Ella and I the only ones who thing George is the wrong choice for you?”

“My Aunt Maureen is not overly fond of him either, but she knows how I feel about him.”

“And how is that, Clarissa, do you love him?”

“I believe that I could love him.”

“That’s not really the same thing, is it?”

“No, I don’t suppose it is. But people marry all the time without love.”

“A pity,” he said.

What did he mean by that? That he intended to marry for love? Her insides knotted and her palms began to itch with perspiration. They fell quiet for several moments before she spoke again. “What did you mean the other night when you said my piano playing was passionate?”

“I can tell from how you move with the music that it’s inside you, that you love it. It lights you up,” he said. “You play effortlessly.”

“Thank you,” she said and realized she fully meant it. He’d given her a lovely compliment.

“Your passion is evident. I could see it on your face, the way your body moved, the way your fingers flew over the keys. I very much enjoyed watching you play.”

“You’re not supposed to watch me, you’re supposed to listen, hear the music.” Was what he said true? Was it so obvious to others that she felt the music inside of her as if the notes were an extension of her bones? She felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. A lady was not supposed to be so transparent, let alone so brazen. Then again, when it came to Justin, she had long since past the point of what a lady was supposed to do. Not only that, but being the perfect lady, or at least behaving as one, had certainly not gotten her where she’d wanted to be.

“I did listen” His voice was pitched low and sent a shiver through her. “Mozart, correct?”

That surprised her. “Yes, that’s right.”

“It surprises you that I know that,” he said. “You should remember, Clarissa, I was raised in a household much like your own. I am a bastard by birth, but only because my father was a liar and a cheater.”

There was hardness to his words. He was angry and she couldn’t fault him for that. He deserved to be angry with his father. He’d been furious with his father since she’d known Justin. It seemed he had not let go of his anger towards his father, but he had learned how to temper himself. The circumstances of his birth hadn’t been his own fault. Still society deemed that those of illegitimate blood were not true aristocrats no matter who their father was. “And your mother, the woman who raised you, you said she was a music teacher?”

He inclined his head. “Yes, before she moved to England.” Some of the tension left his shoulders. “She taught in Paris.”

“Your brother, are you two close?”

“We are now. Haven’t always been. Roe is doing the title much more justice than our father did, though he would never admit as much.”

“He’s a noted gambler,” she said. Funny that he would criticize George when his own brother had such disregard for his position in society.

“He’s a gifted card player.”

“You can say it with more polite words, but it doesn’t make the truth any less true. He’s a gambler, just as George obviously is.” Again silence surrounded them and Clarissa was left wondering what they’d see when their journey ended. The lights of London shone outside of her window. They were getting close.

“You are correct, of course. But I think you’ll see soon the full truth about George, not merely the penchant for wagering.”

“Perhaps. What is it about placing wagers that is so very thrilling for me?” she asked.

“I gambled some in school. Thought it wasn’t much of a gamble because I rarely lost. It’s how I raised the money to start Rodale’s. So I don’t have much desire to bet and gamble, as it were. Though I do know something about you I’d wager.”

“Indeed, and what would that be?”

“You would be a most passionate lover. I suspect no one else has recognized that in you. And I knew it, saw it in you even before we ever kissed.”

“You are scandalous.” But his words heated over her as if he’d reached across the carriage and touched her. Here in this darkened carriage where no one could see and yet he’d said things about the music and her playing as if he’d seen her, the real her, in a way that no one ever had.

“Perhaps. But no one can play the piano like that and not be a passionate person. It burns inside you, Clarissa, you merely need the right man to free it from its binds,” he said.

“And I suppose you believe yourself to be that man.” She said the words before she thought them through. He was also the man who had walked out on her the other night.

Not with you.

“I could be,” he said, his voice low and nearly a whisper.

She tried to say something, anything that would keep her from asking him why he’d left her, asking him why it couldn’t be her. She knew why. At least she knew all the logical reasons. They were from different stations in life. He obviously believed in love matches, he’d said as much one time. If he had tender feelings toward her, he would have made that known.

“Come here.” He didn’t allow her time to argue with him. He pulled her across the carriage and onto the seat next to him—well, in truth she was part on the seat and part on him.

“Trust me,” he whispered. And then he kissed her.

His lips were warm and gentle, and she tried to be unmoved by them, tried to ignore the desire coiling through them. But his kiss proved to be her complete undoing. She melted into him. His lips coaxed and she relented, opening to him. His tongue slid into her mouth a warm and shocking intrusion that sent shivers skittering across her flesh.

His hand cupped her face, pulling her closer to him and he deepened the kiss. Boldly, she moved her tongue against his and he groaned in response. Lust poured through her body, threatening to shut off every coherent thought, yet still she did not push him away. Finally he ended the kiss, but he only moved back from her enough so that she could see his face.

“Your kisses are intoxicating,” he said. “I was right in my estimation of you.”

“About the passion?” she asked dumbly.

“Yes. Chrissy, you are indeed a passionate woman. Do not waste such a thing on a man who hides the truth from you.”

Be passionate with me, she seemed to hear, though he hadn’t uttered those words. His eyes were so earnest, his words so blunt that she was taken aback. If she didn’t know better she would have thought that Justin did care for her. But that couldn’t be the truth.

She thought back to the young man he’d been those years ago. She’d been younger and she’d always thought him to be quite handsome, but he’d been so angry and caustic, and she’d been nervous around him all the time. He seemed less of all of that now. Oh, she still saw flashes of the anger heat his eyes, but he was able to temper it quickly. He had made peace with his father, with who Justin was. She envied him that, for she felt she was always trying to make peace with the person she was. And always falling short of the mark.

She thought suddenly of Rebecca, who would not have approved of her playing the piano with such transparent passion, let alone of her climbing into the carriage of a man on a moonlit night or allowing him to take such liberties with her. Again and again. She sighed. Why was it so very difficult for her to get things right?

“We are here now,” he said.

It was the first time she realized the carriage had stopped. Voices, laughing and talking surrounded them.

“Go ahead, look,” he motioned to the window of the carriage.

She gently pushed back the curtain to reveal the sight outside. There at the edge of the Thames was a large warehouse of a building, a worn-out sign read Rafferty’s. People were all around, women, clearly prostitutes judging by their shockingly low bodices and heavily kohled eyes, and men, gentlemen and lower classes all together. The women shamelessly rubbed against men as they walked to and from the gaming establishment.

To the right, against the far side of the building one man pressed a woman up against the wall, rocking back and forth into her while the woman clung to his shoulders. Clarissa’s breath caught and heat surged into her cheeks.

When the man was done, he merely backed up away from the woman, adjusted his pants and walked away. The woman lowered her skirts and fluffed her hair, then moved back into the crowd to tempt another man. It was shocking, more than shocking. Clarissa had heard of such things, but she’d never really believed they were out there, just beyond her clean and tidy parts of London. And there in the midst of the crowd, an arm slung around one of the scantily dressed women, was George.

Her George.

He was dressed as he normally did, his clothes impeccably tailored, himself well-groomed. But his shirt had been opened and he wore no cravat and that woman rubbed her hand on the swath of his exposed chest.

Clarissa’s own chest tightened and tears stung at her eyes. How could she have been so wrong about him? He’d been the perfect gentleman. For years they had been friends. For years he had treated her with respect. He had been charming, the perfect companion in every way. She would have sworn she knew him as well as she knew anyone.

“He has a penchant for fighting.”

She heard Justin say, but she couldn’t turn to face him yet, so she continued staring out the window. George gave the woman a big open-mouthed kiss and the thought that his lips had been on her own made Clarissa’s stomach churn.

“Boxing is not all that scandalous,” Justin continued, “but it would seem that he enjoys fighting outside of the ring as much, if not more, often goading men into fights. He’s violent, Chrissy. I wanted you to see the truth for yourself.”

If she’d been wrong in her estimation of George, then what did that mean for the rest of her life? More importantly, if Rebecca had been wrong about George, maybe she’d been wrong about everything. Maybe she’d been wrong in her estimation of Clarissa. Maybe the reason Clarissa struggled so much being a proper lady was because she simply didn’t have it in her. Suddenly, everything felt upside down and backwards.

She swiped angrily at her tears, then moved back into her seat, pressing her back into the cushion. “Please take me back home.”

“Chrissy, I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, you’re not.” She felt a sudden burst of anger. Anger directed not at George, but at Justin. He had done this to her. He had revealed the horrible truth about George. And, she realized with a start, not just the truth about George, but about her as well. Time and again, he had stirred her passions. He had revealed her own true nature. Why had he done that? “This is precisely what you wanted me to see.”

“Yes, I wanted you to see it, because I wanted you to know the man he really is. He is a man who has hidden his true nature from you. Do you think a man like that could ever be the husband you deserve?”

Her breath caught as a shocking idea occurred to her. Why had he done that? Did he have an ulterior motive she hadn’t seen until now? She waited for him to say something else, for him to offer to be that husband she deserved, but he fell quiet. Finally, she let out a breath. “Take me back. Now.”

…

They had not spoken at all the rest of the way back to her home. Clarissa had kept her eyes averted and concentrated on keeping herself from crying. Right now that was the only thing that mattered. She didn’t want Justin to see her cry. Not for that. She felt like an utter fool.

He helped her back into the townhome and she found her way to the bedchamber. She called for her maid, made a silly excuse about falling asleep fully dressed and wanting to be more comfortable. The maid assisted her out of her dress and finally Clarissa was left alone. She went and stood at the window, looking out at the darkness.

It would be morning soon and she’d have to pretend as if nothing had happened tonight. As if she hadn’t shared yet another passionate kiss with Justin Rodale. Pretend as if she hadn’t spent time alone in a carriage with a dashing man. But most of all, she’d have to pretend that she hadn’t seen the man she thought she wanted to marry carousing with a woman of ill repute, something he supposedly did on a regular basis. Justin had said George liked to fight. He’d never appeared violent to her; quite the contrary, he seemed rather docile.

Hot tears slid down her cheeks and she ignored them, allowing them to come freely now. Is that what marriage to George would be like? She’d be at home waiting for him and he’d be out all night gambling and sleeping with other women? Certainly not. This was her George. She knew him, didn’t she? And Rebecca had approved of him. Obviously, other maternal types did as well or there wouldn’t be such a long list of women vying for his proposal. More than likely he was attempting to sow his wild oats until they married.

But what if?

What about all of those times she’d given him hints that she wouldn’t mind holding his hand or having a longer than was proper embrace? And the kiss they’d shared? She’d initiated it, but then she’d pulled away when things had heated up too much. Because unlike Justin’s heated kiss that slid desire through her body, once her kiss with George had intensified, she’d felt something alarmingly like fear.

It couldn’t be fear of George himself, though. More than likely it was fearing what he’d think if he saw the real her. What would George think of the Clarissa that didn’t always say the right thing, that felt the music too much when she played?

What if the entire reason George hadn’t proposed to her was her? Had she worked too hard trying to be the perfect lady, behaved too properly? Had she been too buttoned-up and cold for him to find attractive? Rebecca had died before she’d been able to explain all that there was between a man and a woman. Perhaps she hadn’t been wrong about George, but merely hadn’t yet detailed to Clarissa everything there was about a man’s needs.

When they’d dance, he’d told her on more than one occasion that she was the most beautiful woman in the room. But perhaps he was merely being polite, charming. Yet Justin was always able to elicit a passionate response from her. His kisses didn’t make her feel nervous in the least. Perhaps he was right and it all simmered just beneath the surface and she merely needed a reason to let it out. She seemed to have little trouble with that in Justin’s company. She knew George would never sneak into her house and find her bedchamber in the middle of the night. Perhaps there was a reason for that. If he didn’t think his advances were welcomed, if he didn’t think he’d find a passionate and willing lover on the other side of her door, there would be no reason for him to visit her.

But what if she kissed George again and allowed him whatever liberty he chose to take? What would he do? Perhaps it would change the course of everything. If she could share a kiss with George, as sensual a kiss as the ones she’d shared with Justin that might change George’s mind. There was no reason to believe a kiss with one man over the other couldn’t be just as passionate. Even more so because of her feelings for George. Then perhaps it would persuade George that she was a desirable woman. Then he wouldn’t need to go and find and pay another woman for things that Clarissa could certainly learn to do.

She felt a momentary pang at the thought of Justin and the intimacy they’d shared in the carriage. There had been that instant when she had thought he might offer some sign of affection himself, but he hadn’t. No, Justin was not for her. George was still the man for her.

She needed lessons in seduction and knew precisely who to ask to teach them to her.