The Rusticated Duchess (33 page)

“And now that it’s gone?” Gloria asked him.

Clare grimaced. “The alternatives are not as effective.”

Gloria looked at him suspiciously but he shrugged. “I spoke with Mrs Flannery. She advises you begin on the day your courses start.”

He looked at Gloria, waiting, so she squirmed and muttered, “This week, I think.” Her cheeks were bright red but Clare paid no attention to her discomfort.

“Well, then. Mrs Flannery will bring you a tea infused with herbs. You must drink it consistently and follow her directions precisely every day.”

“What are the ingredients?” she asked curiously.

“Queen Anne’s lace seeds, lavender, marjoram and others.” Then he paused, watching her dispassionately until she wanted to squirm. “It is unwise to rely on one method to prevent conception, so we should also use other preventative practices.”

Gloria waited, raising a brow to encourage him.

“The most common method is, of course,
coitus interruptus
. Simply put, I must withdraw and spill my seed outside of your womb. Or”—he cleared his throat—“use your rear, a practice that is common enough, but frowned upon by strict moralists.”

“Why?” Gloria demanded. “It isn’t unpleasant—”

“It was pleasurable enough because I was considerate of you. Without the oil, it would have been painful and perhaps caused you to bleed. There are other materials that might be used in place of oils—butter and lard are the most common.”

Gloria nodded, sipping her tea and averting her eyes as she tried to see a way forwards to the assumption he’d made in the morning. She was still angry, and wouldn’t forget, and how could she let it go? Squaring her jaw, drawing a deep breath, she sat the teacup aside and lifted her chin to look at him proudly.

He met her gaze, compassion and understanding softening his mouth. “Ending a pregnancy before a woman’s womb quickens is fairly common. Many women of our class engage in such—”

“Perhaps they do, but I would not,” Gloria returned hotly.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Clare paced the room for several minutes, then sat on the edge of the desk and met Gloria’s eyes, his own troubled. “I am relieved to hear you say it,” he told her gently. “But you must understand that this is not a choice I could ever make, or take, from you.” He paused, then said with difficulty, “Forcing any woman in desperate straits into motherhood is dangerous.”

Gloria’s eyes narrowed. “Why?” she demanded.

The muscles in Clare’s face shuffled as his eyes darkened to almost brown, the vibrant green fading with remembered sorrow. “Sarah had a sister Shannon, who married a year before we did. Only Shannon did not marry with affection, and it was not long before she and her husband agreed on only thing. He went to London for Parliament and she stayed in Ireland, where she soon found a lover. Her husband delayed his return, and she continued to indulge, until she found herself with child.”

Gloria felt her heart lurch. The expression on Clare’s face clearly demonstrated that his tale would not end well.

“It was apparent that the child could not be her husband’s. Her lover begged her to leave Ireland with him and make a life together in America, even sought Sarah and I out at our wedding and asked us to speak with her. She refused him and instead summoned a local midwife for advice.”

Gloria clasped her hands, squeezing them together, suddenly trembling.

“The day after our wedding, she saddled one of her husband’s stallions and rode out at a gallop before the grooms could stop her. They gave chase, of course, but she only rode faster, until she was thrown off while jumping a fence. She miscarried, as seemed to be her intention. She also broke her spine and died after a long, excruciatingly painful week.”

Gloria’s eyes widened. She shuddered. It was fair of him to say that ending a pregnancy was a common enough practice among women and servants in her circle. She’d certainly heard whispers of such and knew very well who to consult about such matters in London. A number of respected physicians were known to provide the service—

“Sarah?” she finally whispered.

Clare stood and paced away. “Sarah watched her sister die, and was grieving. She did not want to be pregnant while we were in Europe, and so I sought out all the knowledge I could on how to prevent such an occurrence.”

“What other ways are there, then?” she asked, when he seemed disinclined to continue.

Clare stared at her, clearly considering, but then shrugged and sighed. “Ancient Jews used a small section of dried sea sponge, covered it in silk and tied it with a ribbon, then inserted it inside the woman after she was aroused. It was believed that when the man then spent himself inside her, his seed would be captured by the sponge, which was removed after by pulling on the ribbon.”

Gloria’s eyes widened, but she held her ground, refusing to let him see any more of a reaction before she had time to consider such a thing for more than a few seconds. “Go on,” she encouraged instead.

“The Italian Casanova strongly advocated the use of a ‘condom’, a construction made of various materials that covers a man’s member. They come primarily from the Continent, usually France. Inexpensive ones are linen, dipped and soaked in a chemical mixture, and dried. Better ones are made from sheep’s gut. They prevent the spread of syphilis, but it has become apparent that they also interfere with reproduction. A man dons the device after he is fully aroused, ties it with a ribbon and copulates, discarding it after.”

Gloria’s face lit up as a variety of memories suddenly converged to a sensible conclusion. “Oh, is
that
a French letter?” she asked.

Clare smirked. “Yes. ’Tis common for young men on a Grand Tour these days to enclose them in letters to their friends. They seek them out and write as soon as they arrive in Paris, so those here might have reason to look forwards to the receipt of a letter from France. Such discussions of French letters will be socially acceptable until the matrons and mothers discover what the excitement is about.”

Gloria couldn’t help but laugh. She had heard her share of such discussions in ballrooms, decorous conversations between younger males of the aristocracy, to all appearances discussing the travels of friends. “I had wondered,” she mused, “why young Lord Martindale was so pleased that he’d been remembered with a French letter by his classmate, Julian Ravenswood—especially since Ravenswood was in Constantinople and not France. I supposed it had been franked in France.”

Clare laughed in return, drawing Gloria beside him to stand near the window. “Curiously enough,” he told her, “Frenchmen call them English coats.” He watched her gurgling laughter closely before returning to his lesson.

“Not so very long ago, Casanova wrote that dunking a section of lemon in the fruit’s own juices, then tying a string about it and inserting it into a woman’s womb would prevent pregnancy. ’Twas his thinking that the acidic nature of the fruit would weaken the effectiveness of a man’s seed, and the rind and fruit would prevent it from entering the womb.”

Blinking, Gloria tried to restrain a smile, but Clare saw it anyway. He crossed his arms in front of him belligerently. “Speak,” he said shortly, gesturing at her.

“I suddenly understand,” she murmured, “why so many wealthy husbands in London have permitted—and even encouraged—their wives to replace or update their conservatories with orangeries. A steady supply of lemons, limes and oranges—cultivated in their own homes and by their own wives—must be very tempting.”

Clare stared at her, and suddenly laughed. “Minx!” he said, reaching out to cup her cheek in his palm. “Such a troublemaker you would be if you shared such things with the ladies of London.”

“And do you, Lord Clare, have an orangery?” she challenged him.

Clare had the humility to blush, but he met her eyes. “Of course I do,” he returned.

Gloria’s face flushed, even as she smirked.

“You, my darling, have a wicked sense of humour—I had not seen it until now. And you are tempting me. We must not experiment with such things until your courses have passed and you have imbibed the tea faithfully for at least a week.” Clare’s forefinger traced her eyebrow. “Beware, because there are two final maxims that must be observed for you to have faith in these methods.”

Gloria pressed close to his side, close enough that her bosom pressed against his ribs at his waistcoat and he couldn’t help but slide his hands over her hips and up to cradle her back. “Yes?” she murmured, in a sultry voice.

Clare frowned and brought a hand forwards to tap her nose. “First, they require preparation and supplies, and that requirement, my darling, discourages me from ravishing you in my study. And secondly, they are not foolproof. There are accidents, mistakes. It is important that you use one in conjunction with the tea, as a precaution.”

To his surprise, Gloria rose up on her slippers and pressed her lips to his, her eyes open as she considered him. Clare couldn’t resist tugging her into his arms and running his hands over the trim, neat gown that encased her curves, delighted that she’d initiated this rare show of affection.

“Thank you for the lesson,” she murmured against his lips, widening her eyes as he stared at her. “But you left out something important.”

Clare blinked, shocked by her boldness. What had happened to his reluctant bride?

More importantly, what did she know about the business of intimate marriages that he’d forgotten? Speechless, he waited, but she simply chuckled at his silence. “Perhaps you omitted it on purpose, Jeremy?” she murmured, biting his lower lip gently. “Are you testing my imagination or my experience?”

Clare blinked, soaking up the sound of his given name on her lips. He felt her hands trace his spine. She drew back an inch and smiled.

Clare’s mind spun. “
Angel
,” he groaned.

“Aren’t you even going to ask what I mean?” she teased, her hands settling on his hips and her palms rubbing in slight circles through his breeches.

“What’s that?” he managed, distracted by her glow and her vibrancy. What were they discussing? All he could remember was that the study door wasn’t locked, and that the drapes to the window were open to the gardens. They weren’t nearly private enough—

“This,” Gloria said, and sank to her knees in front of him, her hands brushing against the erection inside his breeches as she unfastened the flap.

His mouth fell open, but she didn’t see it. He put his hands to her hair, but held them in place as he watched his fingers shake. If he gripped her scalp, her coiffure would fall apart and she’d leave the study dishevelled.

But then it was too late because the cool air in the room washed over his hard cock and her silken fingers fondled it.

His hands pushed into her tresses and held her then, helpless to do anything else. Was he drawing her closer or pushing her away? Both? Clare couldn’t think past her palm cradling the heavy sac beneath his staff.

Gloria’s lips touched his flesh and wild desire swept Clare. “The door is unlocked,” he gasped. “Anyone can see in the window.”

She chuckled against the pulsing head of his cock, and Clare gasped, flexing his hands in her hair as his seed spilt on her lips. Gloria lapped up the fluid and mewled happily. “Says the man who wants a nude painted of me beside the river. The sunlight excites you,” she taunted, then slid her lips forwards, taking his throbbing staff into her mouth as her hands clutched his hips.

The latent arousal that had been with him since she’d walked into his study rushed from the entire length of his body and flooded his groin. He jerked, thrusting deep inside that hot cavern, his ejaculate emptying into her mouth.

“Bloody hell,” he growled, shuddering as he withdrew from her mouth. To his shock, she pressed forwards, licking up the remnants of his release before her hands, blessedly gentle, tucked him inside his breeches and fastened the flap while he stared at the top of her head. “How did you know?”

“Every fantasy you’ve described, every portrait you’ve painted in your mind, they are all sunlit. Open,” she murmured, rising to her feet and raising her hands to her head. He watched as she expertly pulled a few pins from her hair, smoothed it out, twisted it, curled back into a simple bun on the back of her head and repinned it.

Then she met his eyes, smiled and licked her lips.

Clare let out a small groan and sank down in the closest chair, staring at her. “How the devil am I going to reward you for that? A new ball gown? A new carriage? Diamonds?”

Gloria’s eyes twinkled and she stalked towards him, raising her eyebrows as she smiled. Clare felt his heart stutter at the teasing, happy look, and he instinctively adjusted his position in the chair as she moved between his legs and poked him in the chest. Leaning forwards, she tapped the place she had poked and whispered, “Those are no rewards. You’ll be getting me all of those possessions anyway.”

He raised one brow, grabbed her hips and sat her down hard on his knee. The imbalance surprised her and she gasped and grasped at him, and Clare swooped, capturing her mouth with his. When the smile was gone and the taste of his own fluid was on his tongue, he drew back and agreed. “True. You’re completely right. I’ll gift all that to you and more. So what would make you happy, Glory?”

To his surprise, her eyes didn’t light with mischief. The green orbs wavered, and her lips curved, but it was a sad, wistful smile. “Something you can’t give me,” she confessed. “So I will settle for kisses in the sunlight.”

“Tell me,” he insisted, cradling her against him and stroking her cheek.

“I wish,” she finally admitted, “I wish I knew, like my sisters all will now. I wish I knew who fathered me.”

Clare jerked in surprise, captured her jaw and lifted it up so that he could peer into her face. “Is that all?” he asked. Again, he pressed his lips to hers and murmured, “Your wish is my command.”

* * * *

“So my father was an aristocrat,” Gloria said thoughtfully, staring out of the window. Clare had told her, simply, who had sired her, how he had died. He’d acknowledged that Gloria’s father had never married. He’d explained the longstanding friendship between Lennox and Twicken, and how Johna must have loved first Twicken and Lennox. He mentioned that Brody Jenson had confirmed his suspicions.