The Accidental Mistress

by Tracy Anne Warren

  She nearly choked again at the naughty remark, a fresh tingle plunging low as he moved his hand again, stroking his palm along her spine all the way to its base. He toyed there for a brief instant as if he longed to travel onward, then dropped his arm casually to his side.

  Her nipples tightened, uncontrolled warmth seeping into her cheeks. She restrained the urge to cross her arms over her chest, grateful for the shift and stays that kept her reaction from being visible. Flashing him a look, she noticed he appeared utterly unrepentant.

  Lord above, what if someone has seen? But a quick check around the room showed that no one was looking at them, the majority of people far too busy talking or making their way onto the dance floor.

  With a clearly wicked light gleaming in his gorgeous eyes, he extended an arm. “Shall we?”

  For an instant, she nearly refused, then decided better of the impulse. Seemingly quiescent, she laid her hand atop the luxurious black fabric of his sleeve.

  She touched more of the elegant cloth a minute later as she set one gloved hand onto the firm expanse of his shoulder, her other palm clasped securely inside his own.

  Once again, his other hand was at her back, positioned in a spot just south of where it ought to be. The same was true for the distance between them, their bodies a good two inches closer than those of any other couple on the dance floor.

  When she tried to step back, he refused to let her, holding her in place with nothing more than a gentle tensing of his muscles.

  “Shh, be still,” he murmured. “You are exactly where you ought to be.”

  She was opening her mouth to contradict him when the music began. Suddenly they were gliding, her slippered feet floating across the polished wooden floor to the dulcet strains of flute, violin, and cello.

  If her first waltz had been exhilarating, this second dance was sublime, as close to soaring on clouds, she suspected, as a human being could come. Her pulse fluttered as he took her sailing, his every move one of confident control and finesse.

  He took advantage of a turn to draw her another inch nearer, his eyes for her alone. “So tell me, madam, why is it you have been avoiding me this past fortnight?”

  Her lips parted and she felt her eyes widen faintly before she had a chance to rein in her surprise. “Pardon me, my lord, but I am afraid I do not know what you mean,” she dissembled.

  His eyes gleamed. “Of course you do, but we’ll let the matter drop for now.”

  “There is no matter,” she insisted, refusing to admit he was right. “If our paths have failed to cross lately, I am sure it is merely a case of circumstance.”

  “Ah. Well, that is good news indeed. I had wondered if you might have taken me in dislike for some unknown reason. I am greatly relieved to know I may be at ease on that score.”

  He swung her in another gliding arc. “In honor of our friendship, I must ask that you allow me to teach you to drive a carriage, if you are truly set upon such a course.”

  “I am. But I must decline your offer, since I have already promised Lord Ottwell that he may teach me, as you well know.”

  “Yes, but Ottwell only agreed in order to spare your feelings. I am sure he would not complain too loudly should you wish to withdraw.”

  “But I do not,” she returned, giving him a polite little smile.

  “I feel it my duty, then, to warn you that he’s not much of a hand with the ribbons.”

  “I am sure he does well enough.”

  Vessey shrugged. “I don’t generally care to tell tales, but the man is ham-fisted. You would do better to hire your local butcher for the task.”

  A burst of laughter escaped her lips. “Surely you exaggerate.”

  “I assure you, I do not,” he said, his expression serious.

  An inkling of real doubt crept in, but she held firm. Of all the foolish ideas she might entertain, agreeing to let Lord Vessey teach her to drive was one of the worst. Besides, after this evening, she planned to start letting circumstances keep them apart again. For her own safety, she had no other choice.

  “I thank you for the warning,” she said, “but Lord Ottwell and I will do fine together.”

  His arms tightened around her waist. “Will you? And what of Ottwell? You know you’re leading the poor man around by the nose already.”

  She gasped. “I am doing nothing of the sort!”

  Vessey rolled his eyes. “You most certainly are. The fellow is half moony over you now, and he’s only known you a few hours. Just think of the damage you might cause with prolonged exposure.”

  “Good heavens. You make me sound like a…a Jezebel!”

  “No, no, nothing of the kind. But you are a captivating woman, one who is perhaps unaware of the power of her own allure.”

  Her pulse thudded. “You astonish me, my lord, since I have no particular allure of which to speak. I do not know where you come up with such ideas.”

  “Why, from being around you, of course.” He spun her in an intimate series of steps, locking his gaze with her own. “Have supper with me tonight.”

  She shivered and fought off the wish to agree. A few loose curls whispered against the nape of her neck as she shook her head. “I cannot. I have promised the supper dance to another.”

  “Then meet me afterward. We’ll share a dish of ice cream. Lady Pendragon told me she is serving strawberry as a special treat. You like strawberries, do you not?”

  His voice coiled around her, seductive as a caress. “Yes, very much.”

  “And Champagne. There is nothing better than ice cream and Champagne. The first, sweet on the tongue; the next, a series of little bubbles that tease your senses as they pop. Come to the garden balcony at one o’clock. I shall be waiting.”

  She shook her head. “I shall not.”

  Without her awareness, the music ceased, the dance done. He drew her to a halt but kept her cradled inside his arms.

  “One o’clock,” he whispered. “Do not be late.”

  And then, before she could refuse again, he released her and blended away into the crowd.

  Chapter Seven

  ETHAN LEANED BACK against the balustrade, the carved granite smooth and cool beneath his hands. Behind him, the darkened garden hummed with life; newly blossomed lilacs turning the air to honey while night insects sang a gentle tune. A warm evening breeze moved in a lazy rhythm, occasionally rustling tree branches filled with young green leaves. Inside the house, light shone from the windows, music drifting quietly outward now that supper was over and the dancing had resumed in the ballroom upstairs.

  Near his hip, balanced atop the flat surface of the balustrade, sat two crystal flutes of Champagne and a china bowl filled with fresh strawberry ice cream. He wasn’t concerned about the confection melting since he’d talked one of the kitchen maids into placing the bowl inside an open, straw-lined basket filled with ice chips.

  The scene required only one more element in order to be perfect—the lady for whom all this had been arranged.

  Lily.

  Will she appear or won’t she?

  Earlier out on the dance floor she had rejected his offer, but he’d refused to take no for an answer, confident that she would change her mind and meet him regardless of her initial rebuff.

  Still, when he’d passed through the empty rear hallway that led to the garden, the hands on the casement clock had read five minutes to one. That had been fifteen minutes ago. Maybe he should give up and admit defeat.

  For this evening, anyway.

  Ten minutes later he was seriously considering drinking the Champagne—both glasses—when the nearly silent whisper of slippered feet reached his ears. And suddenly she was there—the dark blue of her gown nearly black in the pale moonlight, her coppery curls gleaming with a luminous sheen. He could tell she didn’t see him, her eyes still adjusting to the heavy shadows that pooled in a small lake across the ground-floor balcony.

  Then, abruptly, she stopped and gazed straight at him. “Oh, you are still here.�
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  “Yes, and you are late. But I shall forgive you, since I am sure you were unavoidably detained,” he stated, slowly gaining his feet. Reaching out, he picked up one of the Champagne flutes and passed it to her.

  Stepping closer, she accepted the wine.

  Lifting his own glass, he took a sip. She joined him, swallowing a long drink as though she needed a dose of mock courage.

  “Actually I was not going to come at all, as I told you earlier. But I…I did not like to think of you waiting out here alone.”

  “My thanks for your kindness.” He made her an elegant bow. “Though now that I hear your tardiness was deliberate, I may decide to demand a boon.”

  Her lips parted. “A boon? You, my lord, are outrageous.”

  “So some would claim.”

  Putting her glass to her lips, she drank another sip. “Not that I am in any way agreeing to your suggestion, but what sort of boon are you envisioning?”

  “Well now, that would be for me to decide and you to grant.” He held out a hand. “Come now and join me, so we may talk.”

  “Oh? Is that what you wish to do? Talk?”

  He met her look with an expression of deliberate innocence. “Of course. What else have you in mind?”

  Slowly, like a rising sun, she smiled.

  A moment later, however, the reaction faded, her earlier doubts obviously having returned. Hurrying forward on a quick swirl of skirts, she set down her Champagne. “No, I am afraid I really must go.”

  Reaching out, he caught her wrist in his hand. “But you cannot leave, not when you have only just arrived. Stay and share a dish of ice cream. Strawberry, exactly as promised.”

  Her breasts rose on an indecisive inhale, her inward struggle clear. “Has it not melted by now?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’ve had it chilling on ice so every spoonful would stay creamy and delicious. Shall we see how our dessert has fared?”

  Tugging her gently forward, he positioned her on his far side so she couldn’t easily flee, then reached for the dish. Resuming his seat, he took up a spoon, then dipped the utensil into the frozen confection.

  “Here,” he encouraged, holding the spoon steady for her. “Have a taste.”

  At first, Lily did not move, staring at the bite of ice cream and the large, beautiful man who was offering her the sweet.

  Whatever possessed me to come out here? she wondered, her heart racing like a fox escaping from a hound. ‘Twas an idiotic decision, risky and imprudent. Before she’d made her way here, she’d wavered for many long minutes, turning down more than one potential dance partner as she fought a silent, internal war. All through supper, her thoughts had centered upon one man, and her decision.

  Go to him in the garden, or stay where it was safe, but dull? Take the prudent course, or the one filled with excitement and danger and the devastating Lord Vessey?

  As she’d made her way downstairs and through the house to the garden, she’d told herself she was only going to check on him. No more, no less. But then he spoke to her and like a moth drawn to a particularly enticing flame, she had drifted closer.

  Too close.

  Once more, she considered the dessert.

  Should I take the bite or walk away? Then again, it is only ice cream, is it not? Where is the harm?

  Yet when she leaned forward and placed her lips around the spoon, the act seemed forbidden somehow, almost sinful. Though perhaps that was not because of the ice cream itself but because of the man who offered it. Cold and velvety, the sweet melted over her tongue, heightening her senses in a burst of flavor and scent.

  “Good?” he questioned, drawing back the spoon.

  Humming with pleasure, she nodded and swallowed.

  Dipping out a bite for himself, he ate.

  Unable to look away, she watched as he slid the spoon past his sensual lips, taking his time as he savored the confection.

  “Hmm, you are right,” he said. “Here, have another.”

  Feeling reckless and decadent, she let him feed her another spoonful, knowing she shouldn’t be enjoying the act so much.

  “Champagne?” he suggested in a husky voice. Taking a moment to set down the ice-cream dish, he leaned back to retrieve her glass.

  A fresh set of warning bells pealed inside her head. Ignoring them, she drank again, the wine sharp but playful as it bubbled against her tongue.

  Bending toward the ground, he retrieved a bottle, then moved to refill her glass.

  Just barely, she stopped him. “Enough, my lord, otherwise I might wonder if you are trying to get me foxed.”

  He arched one golden brow. “Do not be absurd. You’ve only had one glass.”

  Sliding her fingers off the top of her champagne flute, he poured more wine, froth racing toward the rim. With a laugh, she brought the glass to her lips, sipping just enough to keep the wine from overflowing.

  “So tell me, Mrs. Smythe, how have you been occupying yourself these past two weeks? Hopefully you have not been masquerading in male attire again in an attempt to win yet another bet.”

  Her eyes flashed to his, momentarily taken off guard by his question. “Actually, if you must know, I am not ordinarily in the habit of making wagers. That occasion arose from an…unanticipated whim…one that shall not be repeated.”

  “For your continued safety, I am relieved to hear that you have decided to cease such madcap activities. I hope you haven’t discarded the outfit, however.” He leaned toward her as if to impart a confidence. “Since I must say I rather fancied you in those breeches. Mayhap you’ll put them on for me again sometime.”

  Warmth surged into her cheeks like a rising tide, making her glad for the concealing darkness. “And mayhap, if you wish hard enough, a fairy will appear and sprinkle gold dust over your head, my lord.”

  Silence fell, making her wonder for an instant if she had gone too far. Then abruptly he tossed back his head and released a hearty laugh.

  “You know, madam, I never tire of that nimble tongue of yours, nor that pretty mouth. What—I find myself waiting to discover—shall the pair of them say or do next?”

  “If you promise to behave, my lord, I just might stay long enough for you to find out.”

  Dear heavens, she thought, listen to me flirt—when I don’t even know how to flirt! Then again, I say and do things around this man I otherwise would never dream of saying or doing, all the while pretending to be a woman I am not. If only he knew who I truly am, what would he think?

  Knowing she didn’t dare let him ever find out, she once again set down her glass of Champagne. “The hour grows late and Lord Ottwell is expecting to escort me home. I should be going.”

  A muscle tightened in his jaw. “Ottwell can wait. And if he doesn’t care to do so, I shall be happy to provide you escort. I have before.”

  Yes, you have, she mused, and I well remember what passed between us during the journey.

  She gave him a sweet smile. “Good night, my lord.”

  “But we haven’t finished the ice cream. Surely you can stay for another bite or two.”

  “You want to eat dessert?” she questioned with obvious skepticism.

  “Is that not what I pledged? Ice cream, Champagne, and conversation?”

  He was correct, that was what he had promised and delivered—so far at least. Caution vied with temptation, sensible retreat battling once again against the opportunity to stay and spend another few minutes in the marquis’s indisputably divine company. ’Twas said that Satan often assumed a pleasing shape. Was Lord Vessey the Devil? If so, then he had chosen a most excellent disguise. For what woman, she mused, would not sell her soul to have him—even for something as simple as a shared dish of ice cream?

  Before she knew what she meant to do, she found herself giving her consent. “All right, but only long enough for a bite.”

  “Or two,” he added, flashing his gorgeous white teeth in a smile that made her toes curl inside her slippers. Picking up the bowl, he dipped in
the spoon.

  “Come closer,” he urged in a silky purr. “I cannot very well feed you from there.”

  Despite knowing she ought to take the spoon in hand and feed herself, she inched nearer and let him serve her the confection for yet another time that night. Sugary sweetness flooded her mouth as she accepted the bite, the combination of cream and strawberries as velvety and cold as it had been earlier.

  Still, something essential had changed. For when the marquis gently eased the spoon from between her lips, he paused to rub the cool underside of the utensil against her lower lip in a movement very much like a caress. Only then did he withdraw.

  Instinctively, she swallowed, her tongue darting out to lick away the sticky residue he’d painted over her mouth. His eyes followed, glittering with a hunger she could detect even in the low light—a hunger, she suspected, that had nothing whatsoever to do with food.

  A deep quiver fluttered in her belly, her breath growing shallow and fast.

  He extended another spoonful, the swirl of frozen cream poised for her delectation. But as she bent forward to receive the bounty, his hand shook, a few cold droplets landing on the exposed flesh of one breast.

  On a gasp, she reached to brush them away, but he stopped her.

  “Let me,” he enjoined, quickly setting aside the dish and spoon to pull her to him. With a strong arm locked around her waist, he buried his face against her breasts. A fresh gasp escaped her throat as he set his warm tongue against her flesh to lave away the treat.

  “Delicious,” he murmured as he captured the first droplet and then the next, gliding from one to the other with his lips and tongue. On a shaky sigh, she let her eyes fall closed as sizzling pleasure crashed through her.

  Spreading his muscled thighs apart, he drew her between them, settling her there so he could have full access to her curves. With a series of heated kisses and languorous licks, he began to rove, wandering over her breasts with the movements of a skilled explorer. Using a maneuver she had no idea how he performed, he freed one of her breasts from her stays and bodice, then closed his mouth over an already hardened nipple to suckle upon her. Her knees buckled but he caught her, clasping her buttocks inside a wide, steady hand.