“Yes.” She opened her eyes again and looked up into his. “It is something I want, Gerard. A Valentine’s Day to remember. I want to know what it is to be fully a woman.”
His eyes searched hers in the dim light. Gone were all the gaiety and laughter and teasing of the day. In their place was a hunger almost frightening in its intensity. But Claire did not look away. And her own heart was beating so fast that she could hear it hammering against her eardrums.
He framed her face with his hands, ran one thumb across her lips and circled her cheeks with both. And he kissed her softly on the throat, on the chin, on the mouth.
“Come on then, my valentine,” he said, and his voice was almost unrecognizable in its huskiness. “Let me find somewhere comfortable to lay you down.”
“Yes,” she said.
She hardly knew how she set one foot ahead of the other to walk back into the hall and up the stairs and along the corridor to her bedchamber. Every breath she took, it seemed, was a conscious effort. All the way up the stairs she told herself that she would turn him away at the door, that she would find some excuse, that somehow before it was too late she would shake herself free of the dreadful immorality that she had allowed to rule her for the past two days. But when they reached her room and he opened the door, she stepped inside with his arm about her waist and not one word or gesture of protest. She turned as he closed the door and raised her face for his kiss.
And having passed the point of no return, she abandoned conscience and the moral training of a lifetime and molded her body to his as his hands came to rest on her waist, and opened her mouth to his seeking tongue. She would not allow guilt to spoil her night. Doubtless it would have its way with her in the coming days. But not tonight.
“Claire.” His voice was a murmur against her mouth. His hands were in her hair, withdrawing the pins one by one, sending them tinkling to the floor. And then his fingers were pushing through her hair and it fell in a heavy cloud over her shoulders and down her back. “Claire.”
“Make love to me,” she whispered back into his mouth as his hands came beneath the fabric of her dress to mold her shoulders. Her own hands found their way inside his coat to the satin of his waistcoat. “Please, Gerard. Make love to me.”
And then both his arms came about her and hugged her to him like iron bands. Her face came to rest against the folds of his neckcloth. She could hear him inhaling deeply and exhaling raggedly through his mouth.
“I can’t,” he said at last. “My God, I can’t, Claire.”
She felt frozen. Every muscle in her body tensed. Her eyes were tightly closed.
“I can’t,” he said, his voice against her ear softer, more normal in tone. “Do you not realize what you are doing, Claire? You are becoming part of a Valentine’s orgy arranged for the amusement of twelve bored members of thetonwith not a moral principle amongst the lot of them. You are merely a substitute guest to take the place of the twelfth. As soon as you lie down on that bed and allow me the use of your body, you will be catering to the pleasure of perhaps the most bored and the most depraved rake of a select six in this house.”
“No,” she said, but she did not lift her face away from his neckcloth. “It is not like that, Gerard. Not with us. There is romance. Not for long, it is true. But for a short while. There is beauty in it. And you are not like that. I have seen beneath the mask you put on for the benefit of the world. Don’t make this seem sordid.”
“Itissordid,” he said, and he took her arms in an ungentle clasp and put her from him. His face was harsh, his eyes hooded. “We were strangers two days ago, Claire. After tomorrow we will be strangers again for the rest of our lives. But for tonight and tomorrow night we are to lie naked on that bed taking pleasure of each other’s body—in the name of romance? In the name of St. Valentine, whoever he might have been? It is sex, my dear. Sex pure and simple.”
“You don’t want me,” she said, and she could hear petulance in her voice and could seem to do nothing either to change her tone or her words. “I am undesirable. You have been kind and you have tried to make the best of a bad situation. But when it comes to the point I am undesirable.”
She turned sharply away from him as his figure blurred before her eyes. She hated herself. For being undesirable. And for whining about it. She seemed to have left her pride at home with everything else.
She heard him draw breath and release it again. “If you believe that, Claire,” he said, “you are indeed inexperienced. Let’s keep to the romance, shall we? It has been a lovely day, has it not? Let’s not spoil it by doing what we will both regret afterward. Youwouldregret it, Claire, much as you think you would not. Let’s try to make tomorrow as good as today has been, perhaps even better. Shall we?”
She set her hands over her face and could find no words with which to answer him.
“Good night, then,” he said softly at last from behind her.
Her misery was too deep to allow her to return the words. If she opened her mouth she would begin to beg again, she knew. And somehow pride was beginning to return already.
She thought the silence would never be broken. But finally it was. The door of her bedchamber opened quietly and then closed again as softly.
And then at last she allowed the tears to flow between her fingers.
The morning of February the fourteenth was as bright as the morning before had been and the sky was as blue and cloudless. But this time the brightness hurt the eyes as sleep was reluctantly relinquished—it had come only a few hours before. And this time there was nothing to stretch for, nothing to make her want to bound from the bed and over to the window to see what type of day was facing her.
It was St. Valentine’s Day, she thought, her eyes still closed, and she swallowed against the lump in her throat. The day for love and lovers. But she felt alone—more achingly alone than she had ever felt. And she felt dull and unattractive and knew even without having to look in a mirror that she would not look her best. She had controlled last night’s tears after just a few minutes of self-indulgence. She could not be seen belowstairs with red and puffy eyes. But sleeplessness always made her pale and her eyes dark-shadowed. And she was no beauty even when she did look her best.
She wanted to go home, she thought. More than anything she wanted to climb into Roderick’s carriage, draw the curtains across the windows, and know that she was being taken away from it all, away to forgetfulness and the familiar dull routine of her life. She was tempted. It would be so easy to ring for a maid and send the message, to remain in her room until the carriage came. She could plead a headache.
But there was one day left. They would try to make today as good as yesterday had been, he had said. Perhaps better. Claire grimaced and opened her eyes at last and swung her legs determinedly over the side of the bed. At least she must not add cowardice to everything else. She had not behaved in a very admirable manner since her arrival. At least let her face this final day with her chin up. In one month’s time, one year’s time, she knew she would be willing to give all she possessed for just one hour with him. Yet now she had a whole day.
She dressed herself and did her hair without the services of a maid, as she usually did. And she went resolutely downstairs to breakfast. Everyone was there except Mrs. Tate and Lord Mingay. And except him.
“Ah, Miss Ward,” Mr. Shrimpton said. “Looking, ah, as if you could do with another few hours of sleep.”
It was not an insult. Everyone laughed and someone commented on the fact that they all felt that way this morning even if they did not all look it.
