The Sinner Who Seduced Me (11 page)

“Do relieve me of my breeches.”

He rolled to his right side and punched the feather pillows, dropping his head upon the cool linen. Those words had plagued him since that afternoon. Clarissa had made the comment in fun, but to James … well, it had been much more than that.

He’d taken advantage of her their first night at Kenwood not because he could, but because he’d wanted to. More than he’d wanted anything for some time. If he’d had his way they would be lovers again, not as St. Michelle and Lucien, but as Clarissa and James.

He punched at the pillow again then folded his arms across his bare chest, the feel of the soft, expensive sheets almost oppressive. He shouldn’t be surprised that his feelings for Clarissa had reappeared. After all, if she’d only trusted him and what he’d had to say concerning her father’s purported infidelities, they would, in all likelihood, be together as husband and wife.

He stared at the candle on the nightstand as the flame flickered, casting shadows on the walls. Carmichael had entrusted him with this assignment because James was free from any entanglements that would present a distraction.
His parents were deceased and his older brother was well and married, leaving James to himself.

He threw back the covers and looked at his swelling cock. “Clearly, you’re distracted.”

The sound of his door opening drew James’s gaze to the darkness beyond the candlelight. A dim light from the hall outlined a form as it stood still. Then the person moved into the room, gently shutting the door behind them.

James sat up and tossed the covers over himself, concealing his nakedness from the waist down. “I’ll not bother with niceties at such a late hour. Who are you and why are you here?”

The figure slowly came closer, a feminine form becoming apparent. James’s pulse quickened at the thought that it might be Clarissa, but as his guest reached the pool of light cast from the candle near his bed, James realized he was mistaken.

“Miss Bennett?” he uttered, disbelief lacing his voice.

The girl arched an eyebrow with practiced ease then sat down next to James. “Yes, though I do wish you’d call me Iris.” She caught the end of the cream-colored ribbon tied at her waist, the satin sliding easily as she pulled. “Now, as for the why …”

Her dressing gown parted as the bow escaped its knot, revealing the outline of first one of Iris’s perfectly shaped breasts, and then the other, barely concealed beneath a gauzy night rail. She placed her hands behind her on the bed and leaned back, the wrapper falling entirely open.

“Mademoiselle—”

“Please, Mr. Rougier,” she purred, her tone calling to mind things James would rather not think on.

“Iris,” he began, taking a pillow and dropping it between himself and the girl, “you do not want this.”

Iris nodded. “Oh, but I do.”

“
D’accord
. Then I do not want this,” he replied, his patience growing thin. “Your parents have come all the way to England to find you a suitable husband. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the one to ruin your chances.”

Iris sat up and reached for the pillow, tossing it over her shoulder, then climbed atop James, her knees astride him.

He lifted her off of him and slid from the bed, falling to one knee before regaining his ground and standing.

“Are you absolutely sure you do not want this?” Iris asked, her eyes focused on his still hard cock.

He grabbed for his dressing gown, which he’d tossed over the back of a heavy leather chair, and hastily threw it on, savagely knotting the tie at his waist before replying. “Leave,
s’il vous plaît.
”

James was on precarious footing. A dalliance with Iris could be helpful to his case—or incredibly damaging, depending on a number of factors.

Normally he would have happily obliged such a willing bed partner. But his throbbing cock was right; his feelings for Clarissa could not be denied.

He reached for Iris’s dressing gown and roughly closed it, tying the sash in one swift movement then picking her up from the bed and forcefully accompanying her to the door.

“I can make your life rather difficult, Lucien,” she warned, her lips pursing into a seductive pout. She skimmed his chest with her hand, pushing back the lapel to encircle his left nipple with her fingers.

“Meaning?” he asked, grasping her wrist and forcing her fingers to stop.

She pressed herself against him and rose on her toes so
they were nearly eye to eye, with nary a breath between them. “Allow me to walk from this room and you’ll find out.”

The feel of her breasts on his chest, the indentation where her thighs met his, grinding up against him. God, James nearly took her right then and there, just to prove that he could.

But things had changed. All of a sudden it wasn’t about what one could do, but what one wanted to do. It wasn’t enough—she wasn’t enough.

He reached for the door, pulling it open wide enough for her to pass. “Good night, Miss Bennett.”

She hesitated, disbelief playing across her face before being swifty replaced by anger. “Good night, Mr. Rougier. Sleep well.”

He watched her walk down the hall to make certain she didn’t turn back. When she’d reached the stairs and started down them, James ducked inside his room and shut the door, leaning against the thick panels. “Sleep well? I doubt I’ll ever sleep well again, at least not in Kenwood House.”

“Where is she?” Clarissa yelled, kicking at the gravel as she paced back and forth in front of the bench.

James gave her an admonishing look before checking his pocket watch for perhaps the tenth time.

“I assure you, she is nearly an hour late. No timepiece in the world will tell you a different story.”

If not for the absence of Iris, Clarissa could say that this was a spectacular day. She’d woken early after a restful night of sleep. The realization that she did indeed still harbor feelings for James had been liberating, her emotional state never at its best when she denied the truth.

She’d risen with the sun and dressed herself, which she
was immensely proud of. It had taken twice as long as it should have, but she’d done it, leaving twelve creased cravats in her wake.

Clarissa paused to admire her work, noting with displeasure the scuff she’d just made on her otherwise brilliantly shined boots. She wouldn’t even be out in the garden, on the gravel path—the very gravel that had marred her boots!—if not for the girl. A servant had delivered a note from the girl just as Clarissa was enjoying her first cup of tea in the breakfast room. Iris had requested they meet in the cutting garden for their morning sketches.

Keeping in mind what James had said concerning Miss Bennett’s place in the ever-thickening plot, Clarissa had complied and made her way to the cutting garden at the prescribed time. Only she’d found herself in the rose garden rather than the cutting garden. And then James had arrived and the two of them had hastened to the correct garden, only to find no one there.

And Clarissa’s spectacular day had become markedly less spectacular from then on.

“Do send a servant to fetch her, won’t you?”

“I’ve already sent two,” he snapped, his gaze focused on the back of the house.

Clarissa looked at James, noting again the dark circles under his eyes, which she’d first noticed as they’d walked. She sat down next to him on the bench now and propped her elbows on her knees, as she’d seen countless men do. “You look awful. Did you not sleep well?”

“I find it rather hard to sleep well while dodging a persistent woman,” he replied, closing his eyes and lifting his face to the morning sun.

Clarissa’s jaw tensed. “I see. So that is what you call it these days. ‘Dodging’?”

“No, you do not understand,” he ground out, opening his eyes and turning to look at her. “It was Miss Bennett who arrived in my room—completely uninvited and wholly indecent.”

“Well, that’s rather …” Clarissa wasn’t sure how to end her sentence. She was far too relieved to hear the word “uninvited.”

“Unexpected,” he finished for her, brushing distractedly at his fawn breeches. “I imagine it has something to do with her absence this morning.”

“What do you mean?”

James’s hands rested on his thighs. “She was rather disappointed with my cool reception and warned me that she could make things difficult.”

Clarissa’s feelings of relief were rapidly fading. “
She
threatened
you
? Has she no idea with whom she’s dealing?”

“She knows exactly who I am—personal assistant to St. Michelle. It’s hardly unheard of for people in her position to take advantage of those less fortunate—and not of the same class. She may be Canadian, but she’s rich.”

“Oh, no, you’ve misunderstood. I was referring to her treatment of St. Michelle—clearly she does not know that she’s dealing with the greatest portrait artist the world has ever known,” Clarissa replied earnestly, attempting to make James laugh.

“Clarissa,” James began, folding his hands in his lap. “The men I work for are expecting to be paid. Even if everything should go according to plan, there’s no guarantee …” He cleared his throat and surveyed the neat rows of hydrangeas. “Miss Bennett holds the reins here. Without her, you cannot complete the portrait. And without the portrait there will be no payment. And without the payment I’ve no hopes of keeping you and your mother safe.”

Did he truly care what happened to her or her mother?
Why did you ever agree to work for such men
? Clarissa pleaded with James in her mind, as if knowing the truth of his employ would align the facts into something that made sense. She’d feared the worst upon meeting him again—and who would blame her? Any man willing to enter into an alliance with Les Moines would have to own a soul as pitch-black as the depths of hell from which the members of the organization surely came.

But she found herself praying fervently that James was not that man. He’d broken her heart, but surely he could not have forsaken all the good in himself only to embrace the darkness. And for what? Power? Fortune? Clarissa could not begin to imagine. To her, giving up oneself was akin to death.

She stood and began to pace, crossing James’s line of sight as she traversed the width of the rows then turned back, repeating the pattern. “What must we do?”

“Whatever she asks, I’m afraid,” James replied, his voice laced with frustration.

“But that would require you to—Good Lord, you cannot be suggesting what I think you are suggesting?”

James unclasped his hands and rose, coming to walk beside Clarissa. “It is not as if I’ve led the life of a hermit,” he said in a low tone.

Clarissa didn’t know whether to scream or feel impossibly proud that he’d shared such intimate knowledge with her. “I see.”

“Please don’t tell me we’re back to that point,” he replied gruffly. “I simply meant to say that such activities may be undertaken by a man without emotional attachments. There is pleasure to be found despite the circumstances.”

Clarissa was feeling far closer to the scream. “And was that true with me?”

“Never,” he said at once, “which is exactly my point. Do not equate what I
must
do with that spoiled heiress to what we had. One is an obligation. The other was …”

“Love,” Clarissa finished for him, her eyes set on the gravel that spread out before her on the path.

“Ah, Monsieur St. Michelle, it looks as though there’s news of Miss Bennett,” James announced, his tone dutiful.

Clarissa looked beyond the rows of flowers to where the second servant they’d sent after Iris approached, a silver tray in his hands.

“I’ve a plan,” she whispered to James. She pulled her coat cuffs down and placed her hands on the lapels, adopting what she hoped was a masculine stance in readiness to receive the servant.

“Have you listened to nothing I’ve said?” James demanded through clenched teeth.

“Every word.”

“Did you enjoy your morning?”

Iris sat across from James and Clarissa in the rose drawing room, one of several reception rooms in Kenwood House—though surely the only one that exactly matched her flower-patterned frock. She looked well rested. Her hair had been coiffed into ridiculous curls near her ears that so many women seemed fond of and her cheeks looked to have been recently pinched. She was supremely pleased with herself.

As was Clarissa, which James found rather odd. For his part, the day had been nothing short of exhausting. And it looked to not let up anytime soon.

“Mademoiselle Bennett,” Clarissa began, accepting the restorative cup of tea that Iris offered her. “Shall we speak frankly?”

“I’d like nothing more,” Iris replied, pouring a cup for herself then settling into the upholstered settee.

Clarissa took a sip of the brew and swallowed. “Mademoiselle,” she began, crossing her legs with ease. “Am I to understand that you’ve some interest in my assistant—beyond the artistic?”

James felt damned uncomfortable. Two women, speaking as though he weren’t even in the room. But the best thing for him to do was remain silent, and so he gritted his teeth and watched.

“Yes, you’re correct. And as you’ve seen firsthand,” Iris replied, reaching for a shortbread biscuit from the gilded tray, “I can be quite persuasive.” She bit daintily into the delicacy, turning her gaze to James as she slowly chewed then licked at an errant crumb.

Clarissa sipped slowly, her eyes watching one of Iris’s feet crossed over the other just beneath the hem of her dress. It tapped the carpet, though James would not have noticed if it were not for Clarissa.

“
C’est vrai
, though I believe I may have a proposition for you that would be infinitely more interesting.”

Iris’s foot suddenly stopped tapping. “I’m not sure how that would be possible. You see, I find Monsieur Rougier quite
interesting.
”

“Be that as it may,” Clarissa said, returning her empty cup to the tray. “A girl in search of excitement would do best to look outside the walls of her own home,
oui
?”

“Meaning?” Iris asked, her foot beginning to tap again as her interest was piqued.

Unfortunately, James knew exactly how Miss Bennett was feeling. The last time Clarissa had seen fit to act of her own accord, James had taken on a new name. There was no telling what the woman was capable of concocting. James could only hope that his threats regarding Les
Moines would persuade her to remain within the realm of awkward and avoid the dangerous altogether.