Clinton Priest

Chapter Twenty Eight

"Clinton," a familliar voice calls out in anguish. It forcefully draws me back to reality. A reality where I turn away from Clinton and towards the sharp voice of Lizzy. I was so caught up in his presence I forgot where we were and how easy it will be for the others to find me in his arms. What a scandal it would have been had anyone but her found us. A nun in the sensuous embrace of a man.

"Nothing happened," I say softly. I wonder if she senses the breathlessness in my voice; the disappointment of pleasure denied it carries? Can she hear the sound of my rapidly beating heart and can she see the way my hands tremble at my side?

She doesn't respond to me. She only stares at the man next to me with something akin to sadness and anger mixed with a tinge of disappointment. I know this look. It's the same look I've borne in my eyes since Isabelle married Adrian.

"I heard everything you said to her," she says, her hands tremble with a need I cannot describe. "I heard all those words you said to her which should have been mine. What do you see in such a wretched being which made you profess your love for her." Her voice cracks and mine remains sealed.

Love. Clinton does not love me. He's incapable of it. He's obsessive, lustful but never loving. She can't want a man like him. I bite my bottom lip at my hypocrisy. I want him perhaps like she does regardless of his shortcomings. I can love enough for us two. I can cast aside my vows if he only asks. The realisation tears through me like a hot knife cuts through butter and I stumble in my haste to widen the gap between Clinton and I. Forego the church for a man is madness. Doing so for a being like Clinton is suicide.

"Elizabeth, I offered you a night of pleasure and you took it. What I offer Scarlet should not matter to you," Clinton says.

He slept with her. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest. He slept with her and yet he dared to offer me the same. He slept with her.

A tear slides down Lizzy's cheek and I momentarily forget the feeling of betrayal coursing through my veins. I feel sorry for her and yet I'm envious of her. She's felt his body on hers. She's seen his face in orgasmic bliss. She knows every curve of his body. She knows everything I want to know and yet don't.

"I thought you wanted me," she gasps out tearfully. Her pretty hands clutch at her breasts and the necklace that lies nestled between them falls to the floor. "I hoped you'll come to love me with time."

"Your thoughts and hopes are not mine to nurture. I offered you what I could and you accepted it whole heartedly. I will not be held responsible for your delusions."

"What about her heart?" I ask. "Will you allow yourself to be held responsible for that?"

"Scarlet," he says, his tone is softer, gentler, still I refuse to look at him, "don't."

I know what he means even without him saying it outright. Don't give this up like I've done to everything that has ever been in contention. I can't help who I am. I can't help that I'm weak willed and easily swayed.

I'm moved even though she's never been moved for me. I walk closer to her and wrap my arms around her slender frame. I am shorter than she is and when she places her face into my neck, her back arches outward. My hands are on her but my eyes are on his. Clinton is dishevelled from our moment together. His jacket is unbuttoned and his shirt is untucked and open to his navel. His eyes are cold, unflinching and hard as stone. His hands are clenched into fists and the veins on them are prominent. He's not the man I hoped he was. He's not the man he is with me and yet, my heart still skips a beat at his sight. My lace panty is ruined with my juices and my hands still tingle with the memory of his flesh beneath them. I still want him. Desperately.