The Highwayman's Mistress

by Francine Howarth

  Richard coughed, his usual gentleman cough when about to put someone in respectful place. “This lady happens to be Angelica De Boviere, sister to the Count of Saint Mont Marche.”

  “Begging your pardon, errh, Lady Angelica,” said Mr.Langtry, clearly uncomfortable with her French name. He then bowed in recognition of Leohne and herself. “Miss Whitakers.”

  They in turn curtseyed, and it was Diamonta’s place as elder to respond. “Mr Langtry,” she said, a smile, sure in mind he would have preferred an audience alone with Richard, to which she said, “We were just leaving, weren’t we?”

  Leohne leapt on the chance to escape the older man’s bushy brows, scowling face and ape-like demeanour all dressed in dour black and white hose. “Yes we were,” she said, and grabbed Angelica’s hand in passing. “A little walk in the grounds, we had in mind.”

  Richard looked quite astonished and perhaps a hint of nervousness about him, which she thought as rather odd. Nevertheless they left him to Mr. Langtry, and fled the house

  It was a lovely spring day and they strolled past the temple pavilion toward the bridleway that led to the escarpment, and there found primroses in abundance skirting the verge. They paused to pick enough for a posy each and then began to stroll back toward the temple pavilion, the one she and Francois had often retired to for brief intimate moments alone. She smiled, for Richard and Angelica did pretend on occasion to chaperone her whilst walking, but most often would turn back on some excuse of business that needed attending to, or they would go and stand by the paddock railings to fuss horses therein. Thankfully, her mother had remained ignorant of Francois presence at Park House, but for how much longer?

  Suddenly startled by a horse that came from behind the pavilion, its reins trailing and flailing between legs, sense of fear gripped all three for it came thundering straight toward them. It was clearly in a state of panic and forced them to get out of its way as it broke to the canter then gallop. Angelica watched as it passed by then turned her attention back toward the pavilion. She hitched up her skirts and ran toward it.

  Diamonta’s heart leapt to mouth, for she knew it to be Francois mount and she too hitched up her skirts and started to run, Leohne on her heels. “What’s happened?” Leohne shouted from behind. “Why are we running?”

  There was no point in lying to her sister. “Francois, it’s Francois horse.”

  “But I thought he was dead,” said her sister, as they climbed the grassy mound to the pavilion. Silence lay heavy like a fog about them, then, Leohne said, “Oh lordy.”

  Chapter Seven

  ~

  As they rounded the pavilion, there was Francois his back against the wall, Angelica standing before him, desperate in getting her breath back. He grinned, said, “My horse broke its tether, and I now looking somewhat foolish in riding apparel and no mount.”

  “Well,” said Leohne, semi-breathless, her eyes transfixed on the man she had not met before today. “We thought you were dead, and now, here you are.” She glanced at Angelica. “How wonderful. You must be delighted.” Angelica’s silence revealed what Francois had wished to avoid by hiding behind the pavilion, and drew forth, “Oh my goodness.” Leohne turned, and Diamonta sensed trouble. “You’ve known all along.” Leohne shook her head as though disbelieving the situation they were facing. “That’s why you come so often to Park House. Not to see Angelica, to see her brother.”

  “It’s not how it seems, Leohne.”

  “Then how is it, Diamonta? Tell me,” challenged Leohne, sounding awfully like their mother.

  Francois pushed himself away from the wall, and towering over Leohne a big grin, he bowed and swept her hand to his lips. “Does it matter if your sister sees moi, as well as Angelica while she is here?”

  “I suppose not,” replied Leohne, seeming quite enchanted by his gallant gesture, “but I still cannot see why they felt need to keep you a secret unto themselves.”

  “You know quite well why that is necessary,” snapped Diamonta, “and if you tell mother I shall never forgive you.”

  Leohne turned to face her. “If you wish to keep him secret, that is up to you. But sooner or later mother will get to hear of his being here. And what then?”

  “I shall worry about that when it happens.”

  Francois laughed, and addressed himself to Leohne. “Would you deny your sister the same pleasure you derive from Richard’s company?”

  “That is different. Mother approves of Richard and has told us . . .”

  “What has she told you?” demanded Francois, which caused Leohne to step back from him. “That I, a de Boviere, am the Devil’s spawn.” He laughed, a deprecating laugh, expression thunderous and devil like. “I have been mistaken for my father’s ghost many times, but I am not he. I am my own man, and my heart and soul belongs to your sister.”

  Stunned by his outburst and reeling from his last words Diamonta could not think let alone speak, but Leohne braved up to him. “That may be so, but mother will never sanction a friendship between the pair of you, and if she discovers you are here I dread to think what she will do.”

  “Leohne, promise me you will not tell mother what has happened today.”

  “If asked I will not lie to her.” Leohne laughed, turned and ran back toward the house, and shouted. “Goodbye Francois.”

  “The little minx. I cannot be sure she will not tell.”

  “I can,” said Angelica, hitching up her skirts. “I know a little secret Leohne won’t wish revealed to your mother.” With that she ran after Leohne.

  “Alone at last,” said Francois, drawing her into his arms. “I’ve missed you, missed you like crazy these last few days.” He kissed her nose, fleetingly kissed her lips. “You know that I love you, that I‘ve wanted you since first setting eyes on you.”

  His arms about her she didn’t care if Leohne told her mother all, for she would happily run away with Francois and get wed. “Tell me. Are you the highwayman every one in the county is talking about?”

  His lips fell on hers, the kiss potent, their eyes locked and shamelessly she accepted the pleasure of duelling with tongues. If this was what it was like to be joined as one, their bodies entwined and pleasure seeking she wished it possible now and forever.

  He let slip her mouth from his, and smiled. “You match me well, you vixen,” he said, taking her hand. She could hardly keep pace with his strides as he marched around the temple pavilion dragging her in his wake. “Inside we cannot be seen from any direction, and I want you Diamonta, I need you.”

  Was this the beginning of love’s dawn, love’s awakening? If so, please God they never be separated again. Even as they entered the pavilion his hand to her back urging her inside, she did not falter. The sound of the doors closing behind them did not dissuade her from aiding in his reckless intentions. Nor the way in which he hauled his riding coat from his shoulders and covered the floor at her feet.

  He’d had three mistresses and had dallied with a princess, and had spied on courtiers for the king, and had not held back on telling all, yet he’d never said he loved her until now. He dropped to his knees hand outstretched. She accepted and placed her hand in his and let him lead her into temptation: to his arms, to his lips.

  What enticing madness this was, and he so gentle and caring in touch, his caresses pure pleasure. He bared a breast and drew a nipple between his lips, and gently nipped and tugged and sucked upon it. She loved the thrill, loved the intimacy of it all. Such exquisite sensations rippled through her she could no longer contain her eagerness to explore his body, as she hand wanted to do so many times in the past of moments alone in which they had indulged in kissing and fondling.

  He clearly appreciated her attention of hand to his chest, for he groaned in response but gripped her hand and lowered it, forcing it against his groin. She knew the bulge beneath her fingers to be that of aroused male. It caused her heart to jolt, and a divine tingle of expectancy rippled deep within a place she had never experienced such fee
lings so powerful before.

  “Je n’al jemais ressenti cela avant,” she murmured, whilst he kissed her shoulder.

  “Not ever?”

  “Not as I feel at this moment. No,” she replied, fingers caressing his manliness, aware it had increased in mass and a little daunted by its size.

  “J’al vraiment une chane inouϊe.”

  She could not help but laugh, and sensed excitement building within like never before. “I feel like the luckiest woman, too.”

  “Is that so,” he said, a hand drifting down her silk clad thigh. “You are not afraid, afraid to be with this man your mother thinks of as the Devil’s spawn?”

  “I love you, and even if you are the highwayman who robbed Lady Fortnum I could not love you any the less.”

  He kissed her in haste, as though unwilling to admit his part in having frightened the old lady, and in a thrice hauled her skirts about her thighs and slid his hand to bared flesh of inner thigh. As their tongues duelled, he explored unhindered and she loved the way he stroked her thighs, the way he caressed her furry mound with palm of hand, and delighted in his teasing between her legs with fingers.

  Never touched there before, exquisite sensations drove her mad with frustration and need for more of his attentions. But what more could he do to ease this ache, this need from within? She sensed something delightful happening, but sense of panic enveloped. She wriggled beneath him, but it made things worse for movement added to the pleasure of his touch, and he sensed her distress.

  “Je t’aime,” he whispered, a light kiss to her lips. “Tu me rends très heureux.”

  He made her feel very happy too and she loved him, as she had never loved anyone before. It did not occur to her stop him as he slid away from her, nor to prevent his lips kissing her mound, nor his tongue venturing where his fingers had toyed and teased and tenderised her. She surrendered to him, utterly surrendered and that fearful sensation she could not fathom returned with a vengeance. It was all consuming, and if the Devil’s work so be it. Francois could have her, all of her if this exquisite sensation could bind them together forever.

  She gripped his shoulders, her fingers clenching the fine lawn of his shirt. Agony and ecstasy mingled in heavenly tingles and spasms of pure pleasure, her body wracked with shuddering quakes. “No more, please, no more. I cannot bear it.” Yet she did bear it, to the very last quicksilver pulse of lingering desire. “You are the very Devil, Francois.”

  “You think?” he said, his lips coming to hers, his body too. “Say you love me.”

  “I love you.”

  “Say you want me?”

  “I want you.”

  “Then you shall have me,” he said, nudging her legs further apart.

  She did want him, but fear stalked from the darkness of her mind, as he came to her, his solid muscle nestling against her moistened flesh. “I’m afraid, Francois. Afraid of what we are doing.”

  “Hush, I will not desert you afterwards. I want you as my wife.” She felt his enormity, the pleasure of it easing into her sublime, yet he held back, his fingers again working magic, his words reassuring. “Give yourself to me, anoint me and welcome me as your husband to be.”

  Tide of emotions overwhelmed her, and she could not hold back the glorious wave of satisfaction that swept through her in trembles, quakes and uncontrolled shudders that seemed to excite him all the more. And although momentary pain stole her breath as Francois came into her, it dissipated with every thrust of his loins. She again fell to trembles the like she had not imagined possible, and Francois’ thrusts became frenzied, his face contorted as though suffering some terrible agony.

  His sudden withdrawal and hastened retreat came as such a shock to her, sense of shame welled to the fore, as he said, “I so regret this.” His body then fell to quakes and he grunted, words uttered incoherent. She hurriedly covered bared flesh and made to flee, but he grabbed her arm. “Would you rather I planted my seed and you then with child?” He pulled her to him. “I love you, respect you, and would not endanger our love. We have to be careful. I have yet to prove myself worthy for your hand in marriage.”

  Tears had already welled, and she could not hold them back. “I’m sorry, I thought you meant to discard me as you did your mistresses before.”

  “They were mistresses, Diamonta, nothing more nothing less. And yes, I quite liked one more than the others but I never thought of her as a possible wife. I knew I hadn’t met the person destined to be my wife, until I met you.”

  She clung to him, the strength in his arms hugging her tight reassuring. “I love you, but I must know something.”

  “What?”

  “Are you a highwayman?”

  He chuckled. “I suppose I am, for I robbed Richard of his fob watch and snuff box, and I robbed chateaux en route to the coast. I even stole from my family home on Guernsey, and hid the loot.”

  “You know very well what I mean, and the château at Saint Mont Marche was your home by right.”

  “I will only say this. If I am the highwayman, then I am not alone. There are two of us.”

  “Two highwaymen?”

  “Diamonta, trust me, I will not risk losing you and will not risk my life in mad pursuit of wealth. I know where it lies, and it only requires a little more danger to secure sufficient funds. Which, reminds me, I have a gift for you.” He rummaged around under his coat, and withdrew a velvet drawstring bag from a pocket. Out of the drawstring bag he pulled an emerald necklace and brooch. “Accept this as a token of my love, and wear it the night of the ball. Believe me, it is not highwayman’s booty. It belonged to my mother.”

  “Oh Francois. It’s beautiful. But how will I explain it away to my mother?”

  “I had not thought of that. The solution is simple. I will send it to you with a card from an ardent admirer and the note will say I look forward to your attendance at the ball.”

  “Mother will never give up trying to find out who sent it.”

  “Then we shall play cat and mouse games and indulge in passionate times as we have now, and no one the wiser.”

  “I love you, you rogue.”

  “I love you, too. Now we must away to the house, or your sister will think us up to mischief.”

  “I shall look forward to more mischief, if of the Francois kind,” she said, as they hastened from the pavilion.

  “Then look out for me at the ball for I will be there, and I’ll see what I can arrange in advance for our pleasure.” He threw his riding coat over his left shoulder, and arms about each other they set off toward the house. “Your mother had good reason for hating my father. Did you know they were betrothed?”

  “No, not at all.” Why had her mother said those awful things about the de Boviere family, if she was to have been one of them? “Are you sure they were betrothed?”

  “Oh yes, your mother, according to my grandmother, fell deeply in love with my father. He on the other hand had fallen in love with my mother, and married her in Paris. It was said your mother, not believing a word of his betrayal followed him to Paris with her brother, and when the truth was realised her brother called my father to a duel. Swords were the chosen weapons and, unable to match my fathers skill in swordsmanship, your mother’s brother sadly perished.”

  “She has never said how her brother died. But a duel to the death?”

  “It was her choice, and her brother duelled accordingly.”

  “Poor mother, so in love, and so jealous of another woman she wanted your father dead, and instead lost her brother.”

  He hugged her, a reassuring hug. “That is why you can be sure I will not betray you. For you have, I think, that same jealous streak running through your veins. I have not forgotten the look you cast at every woman spied on my arm at the Élysée Palace.”

  “I may have been a little jealous, but I would not . . . did not wish you dead because of your philandering.”

  “Philandering?” He laughed out loud. “And what would your mother accuse me of, i
f she knew the truth about us?”

  “She’d declare you nothing less than a rake.”

  He hugged her so tight it stole her breath, and she almost tripped over his feet. “It matters not what your mother may think of me, you’re mine now.”

  She loved those words: you’re mine now. She loved his arms about her, and in her heart knew he meant every word, but how would her mother react if Leohne let slip word of Francois residency at Park House?

  Chapter Eight

  ~

  Sat on the terrace, parasol to hand shading sun from her face, she savoured the peace and tranquillity of the scene before her. She watched the swans idling on the lake, dipping their beaks below the surface then preening. Or was it a lover’s mating dance, for the male seemed to be edging ever closer to the female, his actions becoming more exaggerated.

  Her thoughts idled, too; the masked ball that evening drifted to the forefront of her mind. Thrilled with her gown, thrilled at the prospect of a secret liaison with Francois, she hoped and prayed he would be returned from London in time. Though why he frequented the city quite so often remained a mystery, for he never discussed business except to say he’d purchased several pieces of land and a house soon to be his. Where she knew not, nor did Angelica, but he had promised Richard they would be gone from Park House within the month.

  “Diamonta, Diamonta,” squealed Leohne, rushing from the house. “Mother has just returned from town, and you will never believe what has happened.”

  “Oh do stop dramatising and just tell me.”

  “Well, it seems a highwayman was shot today.”

  Her heart lurched. “Our highwayman?”

  “No one knows for sure. He was shot on the London road not far beyond Malmesbury.”

  “Killed?” Oh God, please, let it not be Francois.

  “No, not dead. He escaped, but it was said he near fell from his horse so it was thought he was badly wounded.”

  Sense of nausea and dizziness overwhelmed her. She dared not stand, dared not display any sense of concern as to the highwayman’s welfare, yet her need to know finite details of the man’s escape was a must. “Who shot him, and which way did he go?”