A Little Bit Sinful(41)

“And I suppose you believe yourself to be that man.” She said the words before she thought them through. He was also the man who had walked out on her the other night.

Not with you.

“I could be,” he said, his voice low and nearly a whisper.

She tried to say something, anything that would keep her from asking him why he’d left her, asking him why it couldn’t be her. She knew why. At least she knew all the logical reasons. They were from different stations in life. He obviously believed in love matches, he’d said as much one time. If he had tender feelings toward her, he would have made that known.

“Come here.” He didn’t allow her time to argue with him. He pulled her across the carriage and onto the seat next to him—well, in truth she was part on the seat and part on him.

“Trust me,” he whispered. And then he kissed her.

His lips were warm and gentle, and she tried to be unmoved by them, tried to ignore the desire coiling through them. But his kiss proved to be her complete undoing. She melted into him. His lips coaxed and she relented, opening to him. His tongue slid into her mouth a warm and shocking intrusion that sent shivers skittering across her flesh.

His hand cupped her face, pulling her closer to him and he deepened the kiss. Boldly, she moved her tongue against his and he groaned in response. Lust poured through her body, threatening to shut off every coherent thought, yet still she did not push him away. Finally he ended the kiss, but he only moved back from her enough so that she could see his face.

“Your kisses are intoxicating,” he said. “I was right in my estimation of you.”

“About the passion?” she asked dumbly.

“Yes. Chrissy, you are indeed a passionate woman. Do not waste such a thing on a man who hides the truth from you.”

Be passionate with me, she seemed to hear, though he hadn’t uttered those words. His eyes were so earnest, his words so blunt that she was taken aback. If she didn’t know better she would have thought that Justin did care for her. But that couldn’t be the truth.

She thought back to the young man he’d been those years ago. She’d been younger and she’d always thought him to be quite handsome, but he’d been so angry and caustic, and she’d been nervous around him all the time. He seemed less of all of that now. Oh, she still saw flashes of the anger heat his eyes, but he was able to temper it quickly. He had made peace with his father, with who Justin was. She envied him that, for she felt she was always trying to make peace with the person she was. And always falling short of the mark.

She thought suddenly of Rebecca, who would not have approved of her playing the piano with such transparent passion, let alone of her climbing into the carriage of a man on a moonlit night or allowing him to take such liberties with her. Again and again. She sighed. Why was it so very difficult for her to get things right?

“We are here now,” he said.

It was the first time she realized the carriage had stopped. Voices, laughing and talking surrounded them.

“Go ahead, look,” he motioned to the window of the carriage.

She gently pushed back the curtain to reveal the sight outside. There at the edge of the Thames was a large warehouse of a building, a worn-out sign read Rafferty’s. People were all around, women, clearly prostitutes judging by their shockingly low bodices and heavily kohled eyes, and men, gentlemen and lower classes all together. The women shamelessly rubbed against men as they walked to and from the gaming establishment.

To the right, against the far side of the building one man pressed a woman up against the wall, rocking back and forth into her while the woman clung to his shoulders. Clarissa’s breath caught and heat surged into her cheeks.

When the man was done, he merely backed up away from the woman, adjusted his pants and walked away. The woman lowered her skirts and fluffed her hair, then moved back into the crowd to tempt another man. It was shocking, more than shocking. Clarissa had heard of such things, but she’d never really believed they were out there, just beyond her clean and tidy parts of London. And there in the midst of the crowd, an arm slung around one of the scantily dressed women, was George.

Her George.

He was dressed as he normally did, his clothes impeccably tailored, himself well-groomed. But his shirt had been opened and he wore no cravat and that woman rubbed her hand on the swath of his exposed chest.

Clarissa’s own chest tightened and tears stung at her eyes. How could she have been so wrong about him? He’d been the perfect gentleman. For years they had been friends. For years he had treated her with respect. He had been charming, the perfect companion in every way. She would have sworn she knew him as well as she knew anyone.