Raven McAllan - The Scandalous Proposal Of Lord Bennett

She averted her eyes from the interesting bulge, which sat snugly across the front of his torso. It reminded her of a cucumber she’d seen in her father’s greenhouse at their country estate. That thought made her snigger. A cucumber, indeed. In reality the bulge could, she guessed, be much more interesting. Cucumbers had never featured highly on her enjoyment list. They tasted bland at best. Clarissa forced herself to glance away and looked out of the window, at streams and trees and cattle in the fields. At this time of the year, the Great North Road out of the city was busy, and the first hour had seen them run the gauntlet of pie sellers, post boys, stagecoaches and phaetons. Now, several hours into their journey, the traffic had dwindled to a few carts, one or two solo riders, and once, the mail coach going south. Their coachman had pulled over when the yard of tin was heard, and Clarissa had marvelled at the speed at which the mail passed them. No wonder people said you needed to hold on to your hats if you travelled by post.

A particularly bumpy stretch of road made her grab on to the strap. The heavy rain of recent weeks had washed much of the surface away. That, followed by several days of sunshine, had turned the road into ruts of hardened mud. The gossip was that this stretch of road was soon to be attended to. Soon couldn’t come fast enough.

She stared doubtfully at her husband. He lay loose-limbed in a semi-upright position and swayed from side to side in time with each rolling movement of the vehicle. If they weren’t careful, he’d end up on the floor. Clarissa wasn’t sure what to do for the best. Leave him to the vagaries of the road, or try to wedge him in the corner?

One lurch, more vicious than those before, took the decision out of her hands. Ben swayed and slid across the seat in her direction. His hands found her waist and his head her lap. With a self-satisfied murmur he hooked one hand into the material covering her breasts, and settled himself, using her as a pillow.

Clarissa wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. She looked down onto the dark curls, and at his face, which looked so boyish in sleep, and her heart melted. How long had she had this tendresse for him?

Since forever it seemed, and he was oblivious.

He was her husband, so she supposed she’d better accept what crumbs she had and make the best of it. After all, knowing Ben, it wouldn’t be long before he tired of her, the country, and the bucolic life, and hightailed it back to London. The thought didn’t please her. She might have railed against the marriage, but her papa had said exactly what she herself thought. If she had to marry, then she could do a lot worse that marry Ben. Except … She sighed. She suspected what she wanted from marriage and what Ben did were poles apart. Such as him wanting to live mostly in London. That was her idea of hell. It was a situation she would need to consider carefully, weighing up all the eventualities, if she declined to accompany him.

With that thought uppermost, she wedged herself securely on the seat, held him close, and closed her eyes to think about the strange last few months.

A chuckle and warm breath blowing over her neck and cheek woke her. Something was tickling her ear.

Spiders . She struggled to release her limbs, which seemed tangled in the arachnid’s web.

‘Clary, wake up. We’re at the Swan. Come on now.’ The spider pinched her ear. It stung.

Spiders don’t pinch, they bite. They don’t talk and they would not call me Clary . She opened her eyes to look straight into the concerned ones of Ben. The normally bright grey irises were dark with what looked like desire? Surely not? It had to be mere concern over her agitation.

‘Whaa?’

‘You started to struggle and mutter about being caught.’ He winked. ‘My head was removed from the most comfortable pillow ever in no uncertain manner and you batted at me as if I were the devil incarnate.’

‘Spiders are the devil incarnate. I must have been dreaming. Spiders on a log and … oh.’ She remembered just what the log in question had been. But that was a dream, surely?

‘Sometimes in that dreamlike state between wakefulness and sleep we do things we otherwise might not,’ Ben said and laughed. ‘As I used you for my pillow. And you …’ He raised one eyebrow, and tilted his head to one side in a gesture of query.

‘And I let you,’ Clarissa said. She was sure he wasn’t alluding to that, but to where she had an uncomfortable idea her hand had slipped. ‘Ah.’ She’d never been more thankful to see a carriage door open and a liveried servant waiting to help her descend onto the inn’s forecourt.

‘Ah? Ah, you mean saved by the servant. I will give you that this time.’ Ben followed her out of the vehicle, and took her arm. ‘Let’s eat.’

Damn him. Does he always have to have the last word?

****

Ben watched the manner in which his wife took such dainty mouthfuls of food, and to his chagrin imagined her lips and teeth around him. It was enough for him to need to adjust himself underneath his clothing. Why did it happen to him? Only once in his life had he acted with chivalry, and without any thought to what the consequences could be, and the result was he was leg-shackled. To someone who insisted she had no interest in him. Ben thought there was truly no justice. When he had come across Pendragon and Clarissa, his blood had boiled. How dare the man touch her? Deep in the depths of his mind, he was, he admitted, ashamed that his first thought had been ‘How dare he touch her when I dare not?’ , followed by chivalry, with no thought of how perhaps a true rake would have bowed and left them to it.

Or would one? Because surely the first rule of a rake was ‘willing women only’. Whatever, Ben was uneasily aware that his first ever chivalrous gesture hadn’t quite turned out the way he thought. It irritated him. He’d given up his way of life, let himself be seen as a cad who had, as many thought, reluctantly saved the lady’s reputation. Although he’d wager no one thought he’d completely change his ways as he intended.

If my lady lets me. My lady? Not a hope at the moment. Nevertheless, he intended to do what he could to alter that state of affairs.

Meanwhile, as he watched the totally innocent, but wholly erotic way she ate her food, Ben accepted he was smitten. It did not sit comfortably. Married men did not become enamoured of their wives. They did their duty, and went their own way.

Why?

Meanwhile, Clarissa finished her repast, and wiped her lips with her napkin. Ben swallowed. His mouth was dry and his stomach hollow. Even that little thing had his body on high alert.

A clatter, a crash and the sound of people running across the cobbles outside brought his attention away from his wife. He got to his feet and strode to the window. Outside the road was clear. A couple of urchins ran along the dusty verge towards where the commotion seemed to come from. The inn’s yard.

‘What?’ Clarissa had come up behind him, and stood on tiptoe to try and see past his body. ‘What’s happened?’ Her soft hand as she held on to his shoulder to steady herself burned through his coat and imprinted its shape on his skin. A delicate scent teased his nostrils, and Ben realised it was that elusive something he’d been chasing ever since he woke up.

‘What is your perfume?’ he asked abruptly, and could have kicked himself. He must remember this was his wife not some demi-monde who had no need of fine words.

Luckily, he thought, Clarissa seemed not to notice his tone, or she chose to ignore it. ‘Perfume? I don’t have any … oh, you mean my soap? ’Tis made by Mr Pears. It reminds me of my garden at my papa’s house. It’s one thing that makes my stay in the capital semi-acceptable. Oh, I meant to say, how lovely the garden at your town house is. You must let the staff know they can use it.’