My Lady of Misrule: Wicked Winter Nights, Book One

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Minerva’s eyelids fluttered open revealing beautiful brown eyes glazed with desire. After drawing a shaky breath she nodded. “Yes... Yes it was.”

  “Are you... are you angry with me? I’d understand completely if you were.”

  To his surprise, Minerva laughed, a wonderfully rich, uninhibited sound, which did nothing to quell the fire in Tristan’s blood. “Of course not. That was the best kiss I’ve had in a long time, Tristan. Thank you for such a lovely Christmas gift.”

  Tristan frowned. “You didn’t feel as though I got a little... carried away?”

  Minerva tucked a loosened lock of hair behind her ear. “Perhaps a little. But all in all, I’d say it was utterly perfect. And quite the opposite of dull.”

  “Well, if you’re sure...”

  “I am.” She slipped her hands from his and took a step away just as his sister and her husband appeared in the hall.

  “Oh, there you are, Tristan,” exclaimed Julia as she approached. “And Minerva. Goodness, have Edward and I caught you two beneath the kissing bough?”

  Tristan cleared his throat and angled himself in such a way that Minerva’s body shielded what remained of his subsiding erection. “Very funny, Julia,” he drawled. “Trust you to think the worst of me. As if I’d take advantage of your best friend.”

  Julia’s gaze transferred to Minerva. “Hmm, is he telling the truth?” she asked, before shooting her brother a sharp look. “Because if he isn’t...”

  Minerva laughed. “Heavens, nothing untoward has happened I assure you. In fact, Tristan has been nothing but the perfect gentleman.” She gave his arm a fleeting touch and even that light contact stirred Tristan’s blood anew. “He was going to ask your night footman to summon my carriage. Of course, I’ve had a marvelous time and don’t want the evening to end. But as you know, I’ll have to start out early tomorrow if I’m to reach Ivywell Hall by noon.”

  “I understand completely,” said Julia. “We shall miss you though.”

  “You’re leaving Town after all?” Whilst Tristan was impressed by Minerva’s ability to dissimulate, he was also shocked and more than a little disappointed to find out he might not see her for some time.

  “Yes. At least until the New Year,” she replied with a blithe smile. “David’s cousin invited me to celebrate Christmas with him and his wife at Ivywell so I shan’t be confined to the draughty old dower house after all. It sounds like it will be quite a merry affair and I didn’t have the heart to say no.”

  Tristan forced himself to smile back. “I’m glad.” He would miss her, but all things considered, it was probably for the best she was leaving. Because after that extraordinary kiss, he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep his hands off her. His hunger for Minerva suddenly seemed... overwhelming. But having an affair with her wouldn’t be right. He was used to uncomplicated, unemotional, and oftentimes, purely transactional relationships. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt Minerva or worse, destroy their friendship. Especially if she found out what he was really like.

  Edward, hands on hips, turned toward the front door and frowned. “Where is my footman by the way?”

  Tristan shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not sure.”

  Edward’s frown deepened to a scowl. “I’m sorry about that. I suspect Johnson is in the kitchen flirting with the new scullery maid. I’ll summon my butler to sort him out. And arrange for your carriage to be brought round, Minerva.”

  “Thank you,” she replied with a gracious incline of her head. “Although no harm done.”

  Julia linked her arm through Minerva’s and began to lead her back toward the drawing room. The strains of Adeste Fidelis drifted through the doors into the hall. “Whilst Edward is chasing up the whereabouts of your carriage, why don’t you come and say goodbye to everyone?”

  Minerva agreed and as he followed behind, Tristan tried not to focus on the sensual sway of the countess’s hips beneath the red satin of her gown. To think that only a few minutes ago he’d crushed that ripe, voluptuous body up against his.

  The ache in his groin returned and there was nothing he could do about it to relieve the tension. Nothing involving Minerva anyway.

  Just inside the doorway, Julia’s attention was claimed by another guest and Minerva fell back to speak with him. “As I’ll be leaving soon, Tristan, I wanted to thank you again while I still had the opportunity.” Her brown eyes were velvet-soft in the muted candlelight of the room. Touching his forearm, she added in a low voice, “Your Christmas gift was quite remarkable and I enjoyed every single thing about it. Just in case you were worried and had begun to have second thoughts.”

  Tristan offered her a smile even though guilt spiraled through him. “I’m relieved. I’d hate to think those few moments of seasonal whimsy might affect our friendship.”

  “Seasonal whimsy. I like that.” Julia called Minerva’s name and her gaze skipped away from his. “I must go,” she said.

  Tristan nodded. “I wish you safe travels tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. Happy Christmas to you, Tristan.”

  She squeezed his arm in a gesture of farewell and for one mad moment, Tristan had the reckless urge to sweep her into his arms and steal another kiss. But sanity prevailed and he simply said, “And to you too, Minerva.”

  As Tristan watched her saunter away a second time, and his head was yet again filled with fantasies involving her delectable body, he decided there was only one feasible course of action he could take to rid himself of this inconvenient obsession.

  Turning on his heel, he quit the drawing room and Fellows House.

  Within a few moments he’d hailed a hackney coach; he couldn’t stay, not when his desire for Minerva was simmering in his loins, urging him to take her. A desire he really shouldn’t act upon for Minerva’s sake.

  When the jarvey asked for his destination, Tristan’s first instinct had been to tell him to head toward Covent Garden. He was so aroused by his all too brief tryst with Minerva, sampling the feminine fare at Pimpernel House seemed like a very good idea. Until he thought of Minerva’s stricken expression when she’d erroneously stated she must be as dull as ditchwater. Or how she’d felt in his arms. How she’d tasted...

  No, Tristan knew deep down that a quick tumble with a prostitute wouldn’t really satisfy him either. At least not tonight. It was best if he simply instructed the driver to take him home.

  It looked as though it was going to be a long, cold Christmas.

  She had to have him.

  As Minerva said her farewells to everyone assembled in the drawing room of Fellows House, she couldn’t stop thinking about Tristan and the kiss they’d shared beneath the mistletoe.

  It had been more than whimsical.

  It had been earthshaking.

  All the years she’d been married to David, he’d never, ever kissed her like that. So completely. So thoroughly. It was as though the rest of the world had disappeared and nothing existed except for Tristan and his unbridled possession.

  What would it feel like if we went further...?

  The intriguing idea dominated Minerva’s thoughts all the way home to her townhouse in Cavendish Square. Indeed, it kept her tossing and turning in her bed for more than an hour after she’d snuffed out her candle.

  As Tristan had kissed her, his arousal had been unmistakable, even through all the layers of their clothes. He had desired her and the knowledge made Minerva buzz with excitement. Made her quim ache with longing. A longing she’d never felt before. Not even in the early days of her marriage when David had taken a little more time to try to please her. Before their love-making had become a tepid, weekly, predictable, practically impersonal routine.

  But would she be exciting enough for Tristan?

  In the end, she hadn’t been for David.

  Resisting the urge to pleasure herself until she fell asleep—for flagrant self-gratification was surely sinful—Minerva rolled over and hugged a pillow to her chest. Yes, she wanted Tristan. But he was so worl
dly—virtually a connoisseur of the erotic arts if his much vaunted reputation as a libertine was anything to go by—and she wasn’t. Despite the fact she’d farewelled her virginity years ago, she clearly wasn’t ‘up to scratch’ as a lover.

  Tristan had been concerned the kiss they’d shared would ruin their friendship. And perhaps he was right to worry because she couldn’t forget how she’d felt in his arms. Everything had changed, at least for her.

  Yes, she wanted, no needed to have an affair with Tristan. And the only way to ensure her dream became a reality—and that she wouldn’t disappoint Tristan or look like a naive fool—was to educate herself. She needed to learn more about the art of love-making.

  Minerva pulled up the hem of her night-rail and slid her hand along the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh until her fingertips found her curls. Then the slippery folds and throbbing nub between. David had never paid much attention to her needs, despite her encouragement. She’d only ever experienced an orgasm or ‘cataclysm’—terms another ton widow had once used when describing the astounding rush of physical pleasure her lover gave her—by her own hand. And only in the past year when she’d been so desperate with need, she thought she might burst.

  With thoughts of Tristan filling her head, she began to rub the tiny knot of sensitive nerves to ease the frustration inside her, to bring about a cataclysm and the overwhelming satisfaction that followed. Pleasuring oneself might be immoral, but she was about to embark on a journey where wanton, wicked behavior was de rigueur. She needed to toss aside her inhibitions and self-doubts and release the siren dwelling deep within her.

  By the time dawn’s cold grey light crept into her room, Minerva had hatched a plan. A plan she would set in motion as soon as she returned from Hertfordshire. According to Julia, Tristan would be attending a rather licentious house party at Richmond on Twelfth Night. The Earl of Preston, one of Tristan’s friends, was throwing his annual, and very exclusive, masquerade ball. Rumor had it that only certain members of the ton with thoroughly wicked tastes were ever invited. It was the sort of event the gossips loved to whisper about with equal amounts of horror and glee.

  And Minerva desperately wanted to go.

  It was outrageous, perhaps even dangerous—she was certainly risking her reputation if anyone ever found out she had attended such a scandalous event. But if she could lure Tristan to her bed—even for a single night of pleasure—there was no doubt in her mind the risk would be worth it.

  Chapter 3

  11 Montague Street, London

  2nd January, 1819

  * * *

  Taking a deep breath, Minerva grasped the brass knocker of the smart townhouse and rapped on the shiny, dark blue door. Three sharp knocks that matched the thudding of her heart.

  And then she waited on the snowy doorstep, nervously curling her frozen toes inside her kid boots and clenching her icy fingers within her ermine muff. Even her black merino wool gown and cloak were insufficient to keep her warm. A knife-like wind tore at her skirts, bonnet, and the black lace veil hiding her face. Behind her, on the pavement below, she could hear her maidservant, Betsy, stamping her own feet.

  Hopefully her visit to 11 Montague Street wouldn’t be a hopeless enterprise. David had purchased this house for his mistress five years ago. Minerva had discovered a copy of the deed in a box of his old papers shortly after she’d unearthed that dreadful love letter. She wasn’t certain if Miss Delilah Lacey still lived here. But she was willing to take a chance if it helped her in her quest to learn all she could about Tristan’s ‘other’ life as a rakehell.

  When Tristan had told her he knew of Miss Lacey, Minerva suspected he’d been hedging to spare her feelings. As to whether he’d also bedded the woman, she had no idea. But she was willing to wager a great deal that he knew more about the courtesan than he’d been prepared to let on. Which meant Delilah Lacey might know a few salacious tidbits about Tristan. The more Minerva learned about Tristan’s sexual tastes, the better prepared she would be when she had her next encounter with him.

  All going well, that would be on Twelfth Night. The night the Lord of Misrule came out to play. Behind her veil, Minerva smiled to herself. Perhaps the Lady of Misrule would join in the fun and games too.

  Minerva was about to raise her hand to knock on the door again when it cracked open a fraction. A beaky nose and a pair of shrewd black eyes peered out at her from beneath the lace brim of a mob cap.

  “Is Miss Delilah Lacey at home?” Minerva asked politely. “I would like to speak with her if she is.”

  Grizzled brows slammed together. “Miss Lacey ain’t receiving no visitors today,” snapped the woman. And then the door slammed shut.

  “Well, I never,” gasped Minerva’s maid from the pavement.

  Minerva sighed and reached into her reticule. Then knocked again. This time when the door opened, she thrust a handful of shillings toward the cantankerous servant—a woman she guessed was the housekeeper. “Are you certain she’s not receiving visitors?”

  Even in the dull light of the gray January afternoon, the servant’s eyes gleamed.

  “I think I ‘eard the mistress stir a few minutes ago.” The door opened wider, revealing a dim hallway with a coppery-red and gold Turkish runner and a thin, stooped woman of middling age. She held out a gnarled hand for the coins and when Minerva placed them in her palm, she gave a gap-toothed grin and stepped to the side. “Right this way, ma’am.”

  Minerva and Betsy were quickly installed in a tiny front parlor that felt even icier than the street outside. The cold winter wind rattled the window panes and the only thing filling the grate in the fireplace was a pile of ashes. When asked by the housekeeper if they’d like to dispense with their cloaks, gloves and bonnets, they both politely declined.

  After pocketing the shillings, the housekeeper held out her hand. “Do you ‘ave a card I can give to the mistress then?”

  “No, I don’t,” lied Minerva. “Just tell her that Mrs. ... Mrs. Persephone, a woman of substantial means, wishes to see her. About a private matter.”

  The servant scowled and scratched her hairy chin. “Perseph ...”

  “Persephone.”

  This time the woman simply shrugged a thin shoulder. “Wha’ever you say. Miss Lacey shouldn’t be long.”

  “Very good.”

  As soon as she disappeared, Minerva suggested Betsy take a seat. She’d already told the girl she was going to use a false name as the woman she needed to speak with might not be particularly trustworthy. Because there wasn’t a fire—and by the looks of things, the housekeeper had no intention of lighting one—Minerva gave Betsy her muff and cloak to help keep her warm. The girl accepted both items with a grateful smile.

  As Minerva waited, she studied the room. Miss Lacey might be frugal when it came to heating her house, but it was clear she wasn’t exactly short of funds or resources. Thanks to David, she thought bitterly.

  The fireplace was crafted from marble veined with gray and red, and the furniture, rugs, and curtains were all of high quality. She caught her reflection in the large, gilt-framed mirror above the mantelpiece and grimaced. What a forbidding figure she presented, dressed all in black with her face obscured by her veil. Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, was an apt name indeed.

  A porcelain clock on a gilt-legged side table marked the time and Minerva sighed. Ten minutes had ticked by and impatience had replaced her apprehension. She really just wanted this interview to be over with as soon as possible.

  And given the fact she could no longer feel her toes or fingertips, more than anything, she wanted to be some place warm.

  A minute later, the housekeeper returned and led Minerva into the hall then up a flight of polished oak stairs to the first floor.

  To think David had come here regularly, it broke her heart. He’d walked through that blue door, rushed up these stairs, and had then fucked another woman in ways she couldn’t even imagine. Whereas he’d treated his own wife like she was some prec
ious, porcelain doll. Not a real woman with desires and physical needs at all.

  For five years, David had come to her room once a week for a conjugal visit. Under the cover of darkness, he’d ‘made love’ to her whilst she’d worn her nightgown, and he’d worn his nightshirt. Even though it had been pleasant, and she’d enjoyed the intimacy of their encounters, it had hardly been satisfying. For such a long time she’d wondered if there was more to sexual congress than lying flat on her back, caressing her husband’s shoulders while he stroked between her legs until she was wet enough for him to enter her body. Then he’d take his pleasure whereas as she was always left with the niggling suspicion, that yet again, she’d been left out. That she’d been denied something quite special.

  But whenever she’d tried to act less than ladylike in the bedroom—whenever she’d tried to remove her night rail or explore her husband’s body—David had politely but firmly rebuked her tentative attempts to be more adventurous. “You don’t need to behave that way with me”, he’d said. He respected and loved her just the way she was.

  Well, hadn’t that turned out to be a whopping great lie?

  Blinking away angry tears, Minerva threw back her shoulders and followed the housekeeper into an elegantly furnished boudoir.

  The windows were festooned with deep rose-pink curtains and the plush Aubusson carpet featured a pattern of crimson and pink roses. Minerva was pleased to see a large fire crackling merrily in the grate, and when the housekeeper suggested she take a seat, she chose one that was close to the hearth—an overstuffed wingchair upholstered in spring green velvet.

  She was in the process of removing her gloves so that her frozen fingers might absorb the fire’s warmth when Miss Delilah Lacey swept into the room.

  Minerva didn’t bother standing. “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Miss Lacey,” she said in a manner she hoped would pass for cool, calm, and collected. In reality, a frisson of horror had snaked down her spine when she’d registered her husband’s former paramour had hair as red as her own.