A Little Bit Sinful(42)
“He has a penchant for fighting.”
She heard Justin say, but she couldn’t turn to face him yet, so she continued staring out the window. George gave the woman a big open-mouthed kiss and the thought that his lips had been on her own made Clarissa’s stomach churn.
“Boxing is not all that scandalous,” Justin continued, “but it would seem that he enjoys fighting outside of the ring as much, if not more, often goading men into fights. He’s violent, Chrissy. I wanted you to see the truth for yourself.”
If she’d been wrong in her estimation of George, then what did that mean for the rest of her life? More importantly, if Rebecca had been wrong about George, maybe she’d been wrong about everything. Maybe she’d been wrong in her estimation of Clarissa. Maybe the reason Clarissa struggled so much being a proper lady was because she simply didn’t have it in her. Suddenly, everything felt upside down and backwards.
She swiped angrily at her tears, then moved back into her seat, pressing her back into the cushion. “Please take me back home.”
“Chrissy, I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, you’re not.” She felt a sudden burst of anger. Anger directed not at George, but at Justin. He had done this to her. He had revealed the horrible truth about George. And, she realized with a start, not just the truth about George, but about her as well. Time and again, he had stirred her passions. He had revealed her own true nature. Why had he done that? “This is precisely what you wanted me to see.”
“Yes, I wanted you to see it, because I wanted you to know the man he really is. He is a man who has hidden his true nature from you. Do you think a man like that could ever be the husband you deserve?”
Her breath caught as a shocking idea occurred to her. Why had he done that? Did he have an ulterior motive she hadn’t seen until now? She waited for him to say something else, for him to offer to be that husband she deserved, but he fell quiet. Finally, she let out a breath. “Take me back. Now.”
…
They had not spoken at all the rest of the way back to her home. Clarissa had kept her eyes averted and concentrated on keeping herself from crying. Right now that was the only thing that mattered. She didn’t want Justin to see her cry. Not for that. She felt like an utter fool.
He helped her back into the townhome and she found her way to the bedchamber. She called for her maid, made a silly excuse about falling asleep fully dressed and wanting to be more comfortable. The maid assisted her out of her dress and finally Clarissa was left alone. She went and stood at the window, looking out at the darkness.
It would be morning soon and she’d have to pretend as if nothing had happened tonight. As if she hadn’t shared yet another passionate kiss with Justin Rodale. Pretend as if she hadn’t spent time alone in a carriage with a dashing man. But most of all, she’d have to pretend that she hadn’t seen the man she thought she wanted to marry carousing with a woman of ill repute, something he supposedly did on a regular basis. Justin had said George liked to fight. He’d never appeared violent to her; quite the contrary, he seemed rather docile.
Hot tears slid down her cheeks and she ignored them, allowing them to come freely now. Is that what marriage to George would be like? She’d be at home waiting for him and he’d be out all night gambling and sleeping with other women? Certainly not. This was her George. She knew him, didn’t she? And Rebecca had approved of him. Obviously, other maternal types did as well or there wouldn’t be such a long list of women vying for his proposal. More than likely he was attempting to sow his wild oats until they married.
But what if?
What about all of those times she’d given him hints that she wouldn’t mind holding his hand or having a longer than was proper embrace? And the kiss they’d shared? She’d initiated it, but then she’d pulled away when things had heated up too much. Because unlike Justin’s heated kiss that slid desire through her body, once her kiss with George had intensified, she’d felt something alarmingly like fear.
It couldn’t be fear of George himself, though. More than likely it was fearing what he’d think if he saw the real her. What would George think of the Clarissa that didn’t always say the right thing, that felt the music too much when she played?
What if the entire reason George hadn’t proposed to her was her? Had she worked too hard trying to be the perfect lady, behaved too properly? Had she been too buttoned-up and cold for him to find attractive? Rebecca had died before she’d been able to explain all that there was between a man and a woman. Perhaps she hadn’t been wrong about George, but merely hadn’t yet detailed to Clarissa everything there was about a man’s needs.