Mistress by Midnight

by Maggie Robinson

  He couldn’t refuse her. Her lips circled his cock, drawing him deep into her own warmth. He leaned against a stone and let her take him, take everything. Watched as her rosy cheeks worked, sucking, her hands stroking his balls. Heard her groan in pleasure as if he were offering her a banquet.

  He was a selfish bastard who was all but engaged to another woman. Con half expected another round of lightning to pierce him through the groin. But he was spared long enough to bring her to completion with his own tongue. He tipped her back on the old patchwork blanket, spread her long white legs and feasted. The sun beat down on his back, but he would stop only when he’d given her the only pleasure he could. It was too hot to couple—even limiting the contact between their bodies, they glistened with sweat. He buried his face in her rose-scented curls until she shook him free with the violence of her contractions. He wanted to keep the flavor of her in his mouth forever, hold her, soothe her, but knew what he had to say required distance.

  He sat up, nearly dizzy from loving her. “Laurette, we must talk.”

  She lay splayed next to him, the rise of her chest hypnotic. She nodded sleepily.

  “Get dressed. You’ll be red as a beet. We’ll find some shade.”

  She scrambled into her dress and followed him barefoot over the field to a withered stand of trees. He spread the blanket again and pulled her down.

  She folded her hands on her lap tightly, as if she wished to squeeze them still. “What’s wrong, Con?”

  “You know why I went to London in the spring.”

  She nodded, puzzled. “Yes, before my party.” She nervously braided her hair back up, securing it with pins from her pocket. Con watched her turn from pagan goddess to prim miss in the twist of her wrist.

  “Mr. Berryman. You’ve met him.”

  “Yes, of course. Your uncle’s friend.”

  “He’s no friend to anyone,” Con said in disgust. “He owns my debts. And my uncle’s. I’ve been working like a slave this summer, but it’s come to nothing now. The weather—” He smiled crookedly. “I’ll not bore you with the topic of conversation on every Englishman’s tongue. My people won’t survive until next year. I have to do something. Something I don’t want to do.”

  “You’ll marry,” she said softly, surprising his words away. Her hands reached for his, but couldn’t catch them before he stood.

  “Oh God, Laurie! You know I love you. I couldn’t love anyone else, ever.”

  “I know. Mr. Berryman has a daughter. Is she to be your wife?”

  The meadow was as silent as a tomb. Con felt his tongue and throat swell, making it impossible for him to utter any words. Laurette blurred before his eyes.

  She sprang up. “Don’t cry. It will be all right.”

  “How can it be?” he asked bitterly.

  “I’ll be—I’ll be your mistress!” Laurette said, her voice wobbling. “We can go on as we have. I won’t give you up.”

  “Oh, Laurie.” He held her damp body close to his, feeling the fervor of her heart. “I can’t do that to you. I can’t do that to Miss Berryman.”

  “What is she like?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t met her. She’s not you. I wish—I wish—”

  “Shh. Love me again. Love me properly this time.”

  And he did, because he wanted to love her properly forever. They had a month to make last a lifetime.

  Laurette had changed a great deal from that heedless seventeen-year-old who had desperately offered everything she was to him. He had learned too late—just this past year—that she had carried a great secret, a secret he had been stunned to discover in the rather touching letter Marianna had written to him on her deathbed.

  He had been so shocked it had taken him two months to perfect the plan to become acquainted with his daughter. The distinguished, stiff-necked spinsters who ran Beatrix’s school had been naturally suspicious when he turned up, money and sweets in hand. They had made him feel like a pervert until he reluctantly disclosed his relationship to their pupil. When he had taken them into his confidence about his scheme to win the child’s mother, they both were in transports, as only spinster virgins could be at such romantic audacity. Con had left out the mistress part entirely so as not to sully their illusions.

  He was beginning to wonder if he should have just courted Laurette in the conventional way, after a year of mourning he didn’t feel had passed. She had spurned him when he returned, most thoroughly, but she had been stunned by his clumsy, distasteful haste. Marianna had not been dead for any decent length of time before he proposed, and he’d had no idea Beatrix even existed then.

  When he did—after the horrible, endless ride to confront her about their secret daughter, things had only grown worse. The few times they’d crossed each other’s path in Lower Conover had not been conducive to seduction. Laurette had been frostily polite and he could hardly have spirited her off during church service. Now with the coming unrest in Greece, it seemed he would have to spirit her away to his Yorkshire estate.

  Estate was too grand a word for it. He’d seen the place, once, last fall. Time and Uncle Ryland had not been kind. Somehow it had fallen out of the Berrymans’ purview and was in a shocking state, worse even than Ryland Grove had been at its lowest point. The farmland grew nothing but rocks and the house was home to living creatures who did not walk upright. Con had arranged for a caretaker and drawn up renovations, which were proceeding, as far as he could tell, at a snail’s pace. First there had been torrential rain. Then snow. Then more rain. He wondered if he should not instead look to rent a suitable stranger’s property for this family reunion. Perhaps he was foolish to want to start again on his own land, even if the property was less than ideal. Ryland Grove was out of the question for the moment. He felt cloistered there, smothered in memories, and Laurette could never return in any way other than his wife.

  James and Beatrix would soon be on school holiday. He had arranged to have them both rounded up and sent north with Nico and Sadie. Nico would have to abandon his maid next door and Sadie her deep-seated doubt. The Vincent guardians had been heavily bribed to extend Beatrix’s usual week-long summer visit with Laurette. They were rather rigid, God-fearing people who seemed concerned more for Beatrix’s immortal soul than a summer of sunshine, and reluctant to turn over her welfare to the wicked man even they in their Cornish isolation had heard called “the Mad Marquess.” Con felt as if he were mending fences throughout Britain, not just the fallen walls in Yorkshire.

  But his most important convert had yet to be won. He hoped his surprise would not result in disaster. He was willing to install Laurette in a separate bedchamber no matter how much it would pain him. He looked forward to time with his son in neutral territory, and wished to learn more of his daughter than what was possible at supervised outings in the local tearoom near her school.

  Con wondered from the occasional glint in her forest-green eyes, if the child suspected who he really was to her. She looked very like his mother, from what he could remem ber. The same red-gold hair, the same straight narrow nose. Bea was a beautiful child, and it broke his heart that Laurette was denied the joy of raising her. Of course if she had, he doubted his daughter would sit so still or fold her little gloved hands with such self-possession, not a hair out of place or a spot to be found on her school uniform. Laurette was still delightfully rumpled, although her new friend Lady Christie seemed to be taking her in hand.

  Con finished the last of his letters. He’d done what he could. The rest was up to Providence and Laurette.

  Chapter 9

  Laurette squinted at the pristine linen encased tightly in the new embroidery hoop. There was no design, no clue as to what she should create, no pretty pattern to follow. She could not draw to save her life anyway.

  What was simple enough for someone with her limited skills to execute? A leaf? A chain-stitch monogram? She picked up a sea-green skein of silk thread, licked one end and poked it through the tiny eye of the n
eedle. She would be blind by the end of the afternoon.

  It had come to this.

  Sewing.

  She had sewn only under duress or necessity—a missing button to be reattached, a stocking to be mended, a seam repaired. Just once she had tried her hand at fancywork, helping Sadie with the beautiful blue gown that became her come-out dress. Her wedding dress. There had been hundreds of sparkling stars and moons and crystal bits that had come loose and Laurette had done a creditable job affixing them back on the stiff satin. The dress had been a marvel, designed to lure Con from his self-imposed celibacy.

  And it had worked.

  The miracle dress was a substitute for a most unsatisfactory, decidedly unmiraculous dress. Punching the needle through the cloth, she remembered the early summer day Sadie had tried to fit it to her. She had been imagining dancing with Con at her ball, and had promptly ripped the gown beyond repair when she raised her arms. Not that she minded much. She hadn’t really wanted to wear the white dress anyway, but Sadie had insisted that ladies wore white at their come-out.

  Poor Sadie. She’d tried hard to turn Laurette into a lady, with lemons and milk baths when they could afford them. Laurette still had every original “spot” and more besides. They were graced now by faint wrinkles at the corner of her eyes and lines bracketing her mouth. She believed, if she looked hard enough, there might be a strand or two of silver mixed in with her golden hair. And she was apt to lose her wits long before she grew much older—she was hopelessly bored. She was sewing.

  And thinking of days best forgotten.

  She’d had her triumphant night all those years ago, and the morning that came after it. But one had to be careful what one wished for. She had never expected to turn into Con’s mistress, waiting impatiently for him to show up and take her to bed.

  There was little else she could do on Jane Street. Con’s lips had thinned when she explained the various mistresses’ weekly amusements. It was clear he did not want her traipsing up and down the street for tea or card games. So she had to be satisfied with back-garden chat with Caro and Charlotte.

  And sewing.

  Ugh! She tossed the hoop aside. There was no hope of anyone seeing a leaf in her crooked stitches—her handiwork looked more like a garden slug. Laurette wondered how her own Dorset patch and its slugs were faring—gardening was one of her few domestic accomplishments. When her mother died, Laurette had turned the flower beds on the grounds of Vincent Lodge to rows of vegetables. Flowers were all very well, but Laurette and her little family had to be practical—and eat. She had forced Charlie to help her build a henhouse, its walls approximating plumb, and bought chickens. Sadie had a thriving sideline selling eggs and produce from the garden, and Laurette had labor to take her mind off the fact that she only saw her daughter for a few weeks every summer.

  But not this summer. This summer, Laurette was in a gilt cage on Jane Street, discouraged from venturing out, forbidden to pull so much as a weed up in the lush walled garden. One of Aram’s sons did that, stopping by every afternoon. That was the reason Laurette was shut up inside with a rainbow of thread—the boy was bent over a flower bed right this minute, making everything falsely perfect.

  Laurette was not meant to be indoors or indolent for any stretch of time—she questioned how all the Jane Street mistresses managed to make it through their idle hours without shrieking in frustration. And Con was much more attentive than most of the gentlemen who owned property here—fully half his day was spent with her. He arrived promptly every evening for dinner, slept in her bed once he had exhausted himself between her thighs, and ate a hearty breakfast in the dining room. He then left to attend to his duties, and Laurette had an idea he’d just as soon not be dutiful—he seemed reluctant to leave every morning, luring her over toast crumbs to one last ravishing kiss.

  She would go back in the garden when Tomas—or Nico, she wasn’t sure which—left, feel the sun on her face, listen to the birds and gentle burble of the fountain, check to see if the boy missed anything. Her hands were too smooth now. Useless.

  She was becoming spoilt in the truest sense—she felt “off,” as though she were mouldering within. Resentment and regret were braiding inside her, twisting like the hopeless pile of thread in her silken lap.

  She bunched up the thread and set it back in the brand-new sewing basket that had been purchased for her. Nadia had thought of everything, tiny silver scissors meant to look like a bird, every color of thread in the spectrum, a packet of mother-of-pearl buttons, a painted china thimble. Sadie would snort at the sight of all of it.

  Laurette snorted herself. How foolish she was to feel sorry for herself for living in such luxury, with concerned servants and a forceful lover who spared no expense. But what Laurette needed couldn’t be bought for any price.

  She left the chair by her bedroom fireplace—lit even on this seasonable day—went to her little balcony door and threw it open to the fresh air. There was no sign of her gardener, although a bucket of weeds and a garden fork lay on the tiled path. Laurette took a deep breath and was rewarded by the perfume of London—coal smoke overlaying the flowers below, nothing like the scent of her cottage garden in Dorset. What exotic spices did her brother smell on his trip? Probably nothing so unusual as she could find in her own kitchen on Jane Street.

  It was certainly as hot as a kitchen in her bedroom. Of course! The fire—it could only mean one thing. Con was on his way for a daytime dalliance. How stupid of her not to realize.

  She crossed the room to the mirror. Her hair had as usual escaped its knot, but the rest of her was presentable. Despite Martine’s pleas, Laurette did not paint her face or resort to any artifice to appear to be anything than what she was—a woman nearing middle age who had spent a great deal of time in the sun. And after Con left, she would go right out to the garden and catch the last fading rays of light.

  Laurette frowned, oblivious to the wrinkles forming on her brow. What if he stayed all afternoon and all night? She would have to put up with him—that’s what mistresses did.

  In all honesty, she could not object to what Con did night after night to her body—whatever he had learned in the East was put to very good use. But he still wanted to talk to her, either before or afterward—not during, as he concentrated far too hard on their pleasure to make any sense at all, his mouth busy with kissing her pretty much everywhere. And although Laurette was lonely, she did not want to talk to Con.

  There were some things best left unsaid.

  She focused on the house across the way. How vexing those people must find it to share a garden wall with “the Janes”—that was the name given by the ton to the women of the exclusive courtesans’ cul-de-sac. But perhaps they looked for shocking activity in the pocket gardens to entertain them. Laurette had reason to love al fresco, and knew that it could be very entertaining indeed.

  But today she would shock Con. Laurette struggled with the fastenings of her dress and laces of her corset, stripping down to the sheer shift and stockings. She was immediately more comfortable, and would tempt Con from talking. She inserted a sponge and arranged herself against the mass of golden pillows, pulling the pins from her hair. As an afterthought, she pushed one lace sleeve down over her shoulder.

  And then she waited. Book-less. Embroidery-less. She gazed up at her reflection in the mirror on the ceiling—she looked as decadent as was possible for a freckled woman past her prime. Her lids drooped in the heat and soothing crackle of the fire. In minutes, her tedium put her to sleep sitting up.

  Con had wanted to catch Laurette unawares, but not so literally. He’d asked Nadia when he left this morning to prepare the room for him this afternoon, but it was obvious Laurette had cottoned onto his plan and had beaten him into bed. Her cobwebby shift, finely wrought and almost translucent, revealed her every curve. But the effect was somewhat spoiled by her open mouth and the not-so-gentle snores competing with the birdsong outside and the roar of the fire within.

  He moved stealth
ily toward the bed, shedding his proper English gentleman’s clothes. He’d spent the morning with his man of business, arranging for a sort of sabbatical from his life again. This time, however, he would not be fleeing from his family.

  It seemed a shame to wake her, but his needs were not satisfied only in the dark hours. The summer would give him the opportunity to live with Laurette, away from the filth and pressures of London. They would have a mock marriage, although precious little sex.

  Then again, according to many of his friends, that’s what most marriages evolved to anyway—a lack of physical intimacy was almost de rigueur amongst most peers and peeresses once their heirs were secured. That’s not what he ultimately wanted, but he would take Laurette in the daytime any way he could have her. He was that desperate.

  She was his weakness. His flaw. In all these years, he’d not been able to uproot her from his heart, and he had tried. A little. Others were disappointed in love through separation and circumstance—lovers even died and people marched on with their lives, one step at a time. Laurette had been his lodestar since he’d outgrown short pants, and he didn’t want to be anywhere but on a path to her.

  They used to make each other laugh. Now they were separated by silence, united only when skin brushed skin.

  That was better than nothing.

  He cupped a silk-covered breast in possession and she stirred.

  “Wake up,” he whispered. “I want you to know I am here.”

  “As if I could miss you,” she muttered, half-opening her eyes. “You’ve taken off your clothes already. Lord, you could have murdered me in my sleep!”

  Con eased himself down beside her, slipping her shift up over her thighs. She wore no drawers and he was treated to the sight of her bare, smooth skin, lightly dusted with gold flecks. It was as if she’d been dipped in gilt from head to toe. He’d designed her golden bedroom to showcase what she considered her affliction. He would never forget when he fought through her layer of clothes so many years ago and discovered her tiny scattered secrets. It had been his mission to kiss each one.