Now came the most difficult part for Edwin. “My fiancée has one clause she would like added. She’ll have to be the one to explain it, since I’m not entirely sure how she wants it written out.”
Even as Clarissa blushed tellingly, she removed a slip of paper from her reticule and placed it on the table. “I wrote the words down exactly as I want them put in.”
The solicitor read the paper and blinked. “My lord, you agreed to this?”
“I did,” Edwin said in the stern fashion that generally squelched all further questions.
Apparently it wasn’t sufficient to quash his solicitor’s. “So you’ve read it, then.”
“No. But I know the gist of it.”
The solicitor shot Clarissa a wary glance. “Forgive me, my lord, but I would feel more comfortable if you made sure that it’s written in a way that is . . . acceptable to you as well. The clause is . . . well . . . most peculiar.”
Edwin gritted his teeth. “I’m fully aware of that.”
“All the same, if you could just look it over . . .” The man held out the slip.
Snatching it from him, Edwin read the words printed there in her neat, feminine handwriting: Edwin Barlow, Earl of Blakeborough, agrees to consummate his marriage to Lady Clarissa Lindsey only at a future date of her choosing. In exchange, Lady Clarissa agrees that the period of time between the wedding and the consummation of the marriage shall not proceed beyond one year.
A year! Bloody hell. She would deny him her bed for a year? His gaze shot to her, and he was about to protest when he saw fear flash over her face. At having him demand that she share his bed sooner than she was ready.
Then her features smoothed, and she was staring at him with her usual expression of challenge.
Perhaps he’d imagined the fear. He didn’t always read people correctly. Maidenly hesitation he could understand, but could she truly be terrified at the very idea of being bedded by him?
It seemed unlikely. Unless, of course, her mother had fed her the typical nonsense about the pain, humiliation, and unpleasantness of being deflowered. That would certainly put any woman on edge.
But that didn’t seem in character for Lady Margrave. If ever there was a woman who lived for pleasure, it was the dowager countess. And until Clarissa had made her one demand of him, Edwin would have thought the same of her—that she had an appetite for pleasure equal to his own.
As he stared down at the slip of paper, another possibility entered his mind. Could Durand have pressed his attentions on her more vigorously than he should have? The man had pinned her against the wall that day in the library. Had he done the unthinkable to her during those weeks in Bath? Was that why she despised him?
But that made no sense. If Durand had taken her innocence, he would have mentioned it to Edwin right away in hopes that Edwin would turn his back on her for being ruined.
She isn’t the woman you think she is.
Durand’s words taunted him, quickly joined by her own warning last night: There are things about me that you don’t know, things that you wouldn’t like.
He should have made both of them explain themselves. He hated sly hints and secretive allusions. On the other hand, he couldn’t believe anything Durand said, and Clarissa was just as likely to be talking about her propensity to snore as anything more serious.
Or she might just find him unappealing.
But he hadn’t been the only one caught up in all those passionate kisses. So he’d have to cling to the evidence that she was attracted to him. Enjoyed kissing him. And would one day surely enjoy sharing his bed.
“My lord?” the solicitor said. “Do you want me to add the clause?”
Edwin looked up and forced a haughty expression to his face. “Of course.” He threw the paper on the table. “Put it in exactly as she wrote it.”
From the moment Clarissa and Edwin left his solicitor’s, she felt numb. The look of wounded pride in his eyes, the anger in his voice when he’d told the solicitor to add her clause, still chilled her. She must be out of her mind to be marrying him.
Yet nothing had changed. She still couldn’t let Edwin risk his family’s future. She still dared not risk her own with the deranged Durand.
When they arrived at St. George’s in Hanover Square, she was heartened to have a beautiful bouquet pressed into her hand by the vicar’s wife, who would be serving as one of the witnesses to the ceremony.
“Thank you.” She buried her face in the sweet lilies. “It’s most kind of you.”
The woman smiled. “Your fiancé picked them out, my lady.”
Startled, Clarissa glanced at Edwin, who was watching her with an expression she couldn’t decipher. Wariness? Anticipation? She could no more read him than she could the man in the moon. “Then thank you, too, Edwin.”