My Fair Mistress

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Frankly, by now he’d expected that first intense, all-consuming flash of lust that comes with any new affair to have passed, or at least waned a little. But the more often he took Julianna, the more he wanted her, coming to depend upon these assignations in a way that might have made a more prudent man reconsider the arrangement altogether. After all, it wouldn’t do for him to develop feelings for her.

  Not that I am in any real danger of doing so, he assured himself.

  He liked Julianna; that was all. She was a kind, passionate woman with a warm sense of humor and a keen mind. In her company, he never felt bored, enjoying the conversations they shared to an extent that surprised him. With his previous mistresses, he’d never found much intellectual common ground, their out-of-bed talk generally centering around her jewelry preferences, her most recent shopping excursion, and which play she most wanted to see next.

  When he and Julianna were not making love, they liked to talk of art and music, literature, sailing—a sport both of them loved but in which they rarely had the opportunity to engage—and the occasional smattering of philosophy. When she wanted, the woman could argue with the conviction of Sophocles and the wisdom of Aristotle. He felt certain she would have impressed both ancients had they somehow defied the laws of time and physics and been able to meet her.

  In all ways, Julianna was a lady, without a single avaricious bone in her body. She would no more think to ask him for a trinket than she would stand on a street corner with a tambourine and sing, her palm outstretched. Such cupidity was simply not in her nature.

  Nor did she indiscriminately take lovers, as many women of her class did. As only the second man ever to share her bed, he was proof of that. Although now that he had taught her the pleasures of the flesh, perhaps she would seek out a new lover once the two of them parted ways.

  With their bargain concluded, would she long for intimacy? Would she seek out a lord, perhaps, a good man of good lineage who could openly share her company instead of sneaking around in furtive secrecy the way he and Julianna were forced to do?

  His hand curled into a fist next to his hip, a knot forming in his stomach at the thought of Julianna making love with another man.

  “Where did you get this scar?” she asked, her lilting voice speaking from very near his ear.

  Shaking off his thoughts, he relaxed and turned, his skin tingling beneath her fingertips as she trailed them over a spot high on the back of his neck.

  With his hair trimmed only two days prior, the mark was more visible than usual. Most of the time, he scarcely remembered the crisscrossed patch, having long since ceased to give it more than an occasional passing consideration.

  Faces close, he met her gaze, reading the lazy curiosity in her melting chocolate eyes. “Oh, that. That is the result of a rather nasty collision between my head and an iron crowbar.”

  Her eyes rounded. “Mercy sakes, do you mean to say someone hit you?”

  He nodded. “It hurt like a fury of harpies set to dance on my skull.” Even now, he could still recall the blast of pain and the way blood had dribbled down his neck to seep into his frayed cambric collar.

  “That’s awful. Were you very badly injured?” She stroked a hand over his bare shoulder in an obvious need to comfort.

  One corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile. “Not as badly as the fellow who did it. When I failed to pass out from the cosh to my head, he soon found himself on the punishing end of my fists. Believe me, it was the last time that scoundrel ever tried to steal from a fellow dockman.”

  Her brows rose. “Fellow dockman? What do you mean?”

  His jaw tightened, wondering what she would think if he told her the truth. That once, years ago, he’d fallen on hard times, very hard times, and been compelled to take any job he could find, no matter how rough or low. That there’d been months of his life when he’d gone hungry, so broke he’d been grateful to earn enough to buy a single potato or a day-old loaf of bread.

  Yet no matter how desperate he’d been, he’d never stooped to begging. Nor had he ever once felt ashamed of having to work with his hands, his labor simple but honest.

  “I mean,” he said, “that I once worked on the London docks.”

  “You owned a shipping company.”

  “I do now. I hold investment majorities in several firms, including a couple of shipping concerns. However, during the time period we are discussing, I was a dockman, and not even a permanent employee at that, working day to day for nearly a year.”

  “But I don’t understand. You are educated and literate and, quite frankly, richer than most of the dukes I know. How could you have ever been a common day laborer?”

  Sliding back against the sheets, he plumped his pillow and folded an arm beneath his head. “I said I was a laborer; I never said anything about being common.”

  Moving to lie beside him, she leaned her forearms on his chest. “No, you are markedly uncommon. So tell me, how did a man like you end up working on the London docks?”

  “It’s a long story.” One he had no intention of sharing with her. “Suffice it to say, my brush with poverty was not of my own choosing, nor was it pleasant. But the experience was quite enlightening. I learned more about survival and cunning and good business practices than any gentleman’s education could ever have taught me. In a few short years, I acquired all the skills I needed in order to prosper, quite beyond my wildest dreams it would seem, since I am indeed richer than most dukes.”

  In obvious contemplation of his statement, Julianna traced a meandering circle across his chest. When her fingertips rubbed across one flat male nipple, he reached out and caught her hand. “You’d best stop that unless you’re ready for another tumble.”

  Her gaze flashed upward. “I will be. In a little while. First I want to know more.”

  “More what?”

  “About you. Where did you grow up? In London?”

  “No. West Riding.”

  At least that’s where he’d passed his early years, then later his summers and vacations when he wasn’t away studying at Harrow at his father’s insistence. Nevertheless, West Riding and his mother had always meant home, a retreat from a world that never let him forget his illegitimate origins.

  He supposed, in retrospect, he should thank his father for sending him off to school instead of letting him be educated by a tutor, as his mother had wanted. Those brutal years away had taught him to be tough, taught him to survive by using his fists, and more important, his wits. Another set of skills that had served him well, quite literally saving his life during those early days in London.

  “So far north,” she murmured. “What made you move to the city? Or were you the restless sort and longed to leave the country behind?”

  Reaching out, he caught a strand of her silky, dark hair and stroked it between his fingers. “It wasn’t a matter of wishing to leave. I still love that land, the windswept hills and dales, the sturdy houses and long, stone walls. But ultimately there was nothing for me there. I’m no farmer content to raise sheep, and I hadn’t the choice of living the life of an aristocrat.”

  “So you left home intending to be a financier?”

  His lips curved in a pensive smile. “Actually, I intended to study the law.”

  “Really?”

  “You needn’t look so astonished. Is it so impossible to believe I once thought to become a barrister?”

  “No,” she admitted after a considered pause. “You have the intelligence for it, and the clever tongue. But somehow the idea of you in robes and a powdered wig, standing obeisant before a judge—well, it just doesn’t suit you.”

  “I suppose I’m not really the obeisant type, am I?” he conceded.

  She shook her head. “You’re far too independent for such constraints. The law would have suffocated the life out of you.”

  He hid his surprise at her perceptive answer, knowing she was exactly right. He loved what he did. Loved the art and, yes, the risk, of wielding vast sums of
money, positioning and leveraging his funds in order to outsmart the market and turn investment into profit.

  After earning his first million pounds, his business had turned into a game—a very real, very serious game, but a form of entertainment nonetheless. There was nothing quite like seeking out the next miracle deal to get his blood flowing, to raise his excitement level to an almost fevered pitch.

  Except for Julianna, of course. She got his blood flowing and his excitement level near peak with no more than a glimpse or a whisper.

  Cupping her cheek, he drew her forward for a kiss, fresh arousal turning him aching and hard.

  She kissed him back, then leaned away. “So why didn’t you pursue it?”

  “Pursue what?”

  “The law?”

  On a sigh, he decided he could indulge her curiosity for a little while longer.

  “The simplest reason of all, my dear. I ran out of money.”

  “But was there no one to help you? What of your parents?”

  “My parents were dead.” As for the cause, he didn’t want to dwell on that, especially not in his mother’s case.

  “And you were left with nothing?”

  A muscle twitched near his eye. “No, nothing.”

  When he saw her expression, he moved to correct her misassumptions. “But don’t think harshly of them, since it was not a situation of their own making. My father’s estate was heavily entailed.”

  “He was a peer?”

  “A lord, yes.”

  “What of your mother?”

  “A clergyman’s daughter who had a bad fall from grace, though in my estimation she was never anything but an angel.”

  A dozen questions shone in Julianna’s expressive gaze. “And afterward you went to work on the docks?”

  “Since I lacked the proper references, there was little other employment to be had.”

  She caught the edge of her lower lip between her teeth, obviously longing to press for further details.

  Before she could, he circumvented her. “To make a long story brief, I worked as a laborer until it came to the notice of the foreman that I was making extra money reading and writing letters for the men. Once the boss found out that I could not only read and write but do ciphers as quickly as any man he’d ever seen, he took me on as a clerk. From that moment forward, I set myself to learning everything about business that I could.”

  “What about the company? Is it still in business?”

  “Yes, though it’s under new management now. I bought out my old employer’s shares years ago, then sold them again for a tidy profit.” Reaching out, he enfolded her in his arms. “Now I have a question for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Hmm. I want to know whether you would rather be on top”—holding her close, he rolled her over—“or on the bottom?”

  Growling playfully, he crushed his lips to hers. Laughing, she kissed him back while she gave her response.

  Chapter Ten

  JULIANNA PLUCKED A copy of Lord Byron’s English Bards and Scotch Reviewers off the bookstore shelf and leafed through a few pages before pausing to read a stanza or two. She smiled and thought of Rafe, wondering what he would make of her selection. Likely he would scold and tease her, then take her in his arms and befuddle her with kisses until she had forgotten all about Byron and his poems.

  Returning the volume to its shelf, she moved on. After all, she mused, Baron Byron could be a bit too controversial at times for her tastes. Robert Burns might suit her mood better, mellow and dreamy. Thinking of Rafe seemed to make her that way no matter how she fought against it.

  Selecting another book at random, she forced her mind to the task at hand.

  Pernicious Vices and the Road to Eternal Damnation: A Treatise on Sin in Our Times by Reverend Goods-body. Julianna jumped slightly in astonishment as she read the title. Pernicious vices, indeed! Hastily she shoved the book back onto the shelf and walked onward.

  Where is soothing Robbie Burns when a lady needs him? she wondered. And why, after seeing the reverend’s hellfire-and-brimstone tome, had she started thinking again of Rafe?

  Was what she and Rafe did together a sin?

  No, she assured herself, despite the admittedly unusual origin of our liaison, it is not wrong. Whatever anyone else might think, I have no need for guilt.

  Do I?

  Refusing to dwell further on the subject, Julianna strolled out into the main room, glad to find Maris safely occupied in front of a long wall of books.

  As they did upon occasion, she and Maris had stopped today at Hatchard’s book shop to peruse the latest inventory. Cousin Henrietta was absent, having decided instead to visit a friend in Kew. Laughingly, Henrietta had remarked that she’d been so busy of late she scarcely had time to think, what with all of Maris’s callers and social engagements. An afternoon of quiet, she had said, was exactly what her old bones required.

  Cousin Henrietta was right about Maris, Julianna thought. Her sister was in great demand these days with a regular circle of friends and several attentive gentleman callers, including Viscount Middleton. Lord Doughton, a young man with a love of art and music, frequently stopped by the Allerton House drawing room, as did the handsome, stalwart Major Waring.

  Julianna wasn’t certain, but she wondered if her sister might be developing a special affection for the major. Maris’s eyes seemed to sparkle more brightly and she laughed more often whenever he paid a call. And she was always pleased to accompany him on a stroll or for a ride in the park, returning in a sunny, exuberant humor.

  But her young sister was having far too much fun flitting from ball to rout to soiree to worry about anything more serious than what to wear on her next outing and which gentleman she would choose to escort her into supper at midnight. Let her be busy, Julianna decided, and enjoy the rest of the Season.

  Yet Maris wasn’t the only one with an abundance of obligations these days. Julianna’s own schedule was inordinately full—though for completely different reasons than her sister’s. Juggled into the mix of parties and teas and balls were her afternoon assignations with Rafe.

  With the Season in full swing, meeting him had become more complicated, and she’d taken to having to switch the occasional day. She’d even met him a couple of times in the morning, getting only a few hours’ sleep before sneaking over to the house in Queens Square while most of her acquaintance were still fast asleep.

  Luckily, Rafe didn’t seem to mind the adjustments, or if he did, he refrained from saying. She knew he understood that her time was no longer completely her own. She had a duty to her sister and needed, more than ever before, to be careful when and where she went, and by whom she was seen.

  Neither of them ever discussed their initial bargain, nor mentioned the debt still owed to him. Four months from now and her obligation would be met. She would be free to walk away and never see Rafe again, if that is what she wished.

  But do I wish it? she pondered.

  Footfalls intruded upon her thoughts. Glancing up, she watched the Earl of Summersfield stride toward her, his patrician face alive with pleasure.

  “Lady Hawthorne, well met! I did not expect to find you here today. What a happy occasion this is!”

  Executing an elegant bow, he straightened, displaying a set of straight, white teeth in an irresistibly cheerful smile.

  She smiled back, finding it quite impossible to do otherwise. Not that she had any reason to resist—Lord Summersfield was a very amiable man. He was also a very persistent man, never seeming to fatigue in his quest to convince her to accept his hand in marriage. He had asked so often, and she had refused so frequently, that the ritual had by now taken on the semblance of a game.

  She worried about hurting him, but he assured her each and every time she refused his suit that he was in no way wounded, content to be her friend until she decided to let him become more.

  Secretly, she suspected he was not truly serious, wondering whether he would be more alarmed than thr
illed if she ever did decide to accept. But therein lay the perfection of the game, since she assumed both of them knew he was safe from any real risk. As much as she liked and respected him, she felt no more than mild affection for him and would never consent to be his wife.

  “My lord, always a pleasure, though I would have expected to find you out-of-doors on such a gloriously sunny day as this.”

  “When radiance such as yours can be discovered inside, why would any man venture out?”

  “Please, my lord, what have I told you about such unnecessary flattery? You must stop this instant.” She softened her command with a smile.

  He laid a gloved hand across the breast of his finely tailored Clarence blue coat. “But that would be censorship of the grossest kind, and to that I must object. When beauty appears in my path, I must stop and sing out its praises. And you, dear lady, are very definitely worth the effort of a song. An entire chorus, in fact, you are looking so markedly lovely. I assure you, my feelings cannot be contained.”

  She chuckled and shook her head. “Enough. You will make my head swell to three times its normal size and then explode. Only think of the dreadful mess that would make.”

  The earl barked out a laugh, drawing the attention of several nearby patrons.

  “See, you are getting us in trouble,” Julianna said.

  “Would that I could convince you to let me get you into more. Care to run away? Gretna is only a coach ride distant.”

  “What I care to do is choose a book. Now tell me, my lord, which authors have you come here seeking?”

  At the shout of a man’s laugh, Rafe turned his head, the book he held suddenly forgotten in his hand.

  Julianna.

  There she stood, only a few feet across the room, luminous in a day dress the color of young green apples. Lush and dark as sable, her beautiful hair was neatly tucked beneath a very fetching hat, a pert white feather bobbing as she nodded her head.

  His heart gave a single hard thump, blood quickening the way it always did when the two of them were in the same room. So powerfully attuned to her, Rafe didn’t know how he could have walked into the shop and not known instantly that she was there as well.