Rycroft laughed, but the sound was highly unpleasant. “Terms? No, that time is over. I tried to come to terms with you weeks ago and you spat in my face. The only language you understand is that of loss. I should have remembered that from your mother. If you are threatened by loss, you respond positively. So I will take what you hold most dear.”
Mariah shook as the knife blade cut just a touch into her skin and stared at John with wide eyes. His breath went short and he paled.
“You have no cards now,” John said, his voice deceptively calm. “You know that. You played your hand and you’ve lost. Let Mariah go and I might…” His mouth pinched and Mariah could see how little he wanted to say the next words. “I could still protect you from the worst of the consequences of these actions.”
“You protect me?” His father laughed. “No, I doubt that.”
Mariah could feel Rycroft’s agitation growing with each passing moment. The knife shook against her skin, nicking her here and there as he lost concentration and looked at the door behind John.
“I think you may be right that my cards are played out,” he said and his voice shook a little at her ear. “But if I must lose, John, then I’m afraid I cannot allow you to win.”
The world seemed to shift into half-time. The knife cut into Mariah’s skin and she cried out at the pain. John cursed, though she would never remember what word he said exactly, and suddenly there was a plume of smoke curling out from the gun he had fired. Her ears rung with the explosiveness of it and she squeezed her eyes shut and waited to feel the dual burning pains of her throat being slashed and the bullet striking her.
Instead the weight of Vaughn Rycroft’s grip released from her arm and fell away behind her. The knife slid against her skin, but with no force, causing a minor, stinging scratch as the weapon clattered to one side.
She staggered forward and into John’s arms, where he held her tightly against his chest and tried to pull her away from the death behind her. But she had to look.
Vaughn Rycroft had a bullet hole squarely between his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling as a pool of blood collected beneath him, his gaze empty.
“Come away,” John said, turning her toward the door. “Come away, my love.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mariah stepped into the master bedroom of John’s home a few hours later to find him sitting in the settee before the dying fire. He stared at the drink in his hand without taking a sip. She winced at his expression—hollow, empty, broken.
“John?” she whispered.
He jerked his gaze at her with a gasp of surprise and then smiled, trying to hide his emotions, to protect her, though she was no longer the one who needed it.
“I’m sorry. I promised to return to the parlor, but I sat down and lost track of time.” He moved to stand. “I’m certain the Watch still has a plethora of questions.”
Mariah shook her head and motioned him to remain where he was. “The guard has departed in its entirety. Your brother has somehow handled it all. Though I think there was enough evidence that they would have come to the proper conclusion even without Adam’s interference.”
“He said he would redeem himself or die trying,” John muttered. “But he isn’t the one who lies dead, is he?”
“Do you blame yourself for that?” she whispered as she moved on him slowly.
“Of course,” he said as he set his drink down on the floor, as if he didn’t care where it went. “I am the one who fired the bullet into the man’s brain.”
“And I suppose you blame me, as well?” she whispered.
He jerked his gaze to hers. “Don’t be foolish, of course I don’t. You were my father’s victim, having done no more wrong than being someone I care for.”
She stared at him. That was more of an admission of feelings than he had ever shared with her. It was not enough, but it still warmed her even though she did not wish it to.
“You must blame me if you blame yourself, for you are a victim as much as I am.” She sat down beside him. “You did not ask to be born Rycroft’s son. Nor to be used by him as a pawn in any of his twisted schemes. You came to that ship in order to save me from his wicked plan. And that you did. I know that if you could have avoided spilling even a drop of his blood you would have.”
“Yes,” he mused. “But why? Why do I feel such guilt, such heartbreak over his death? He was a sick, controlling bastard who destroyed all he touched with a glee that far surpassed the boundaries of madness. He was a dog who needed to be put down. Yet I grieve.”
“Because he was your father,” she soothed. “And that means something to a good man. Like you.”
He glanced over at her. “I hope you know I do not regret saving you, Mariah.”
She nodded without hesitation. She might know little else, but that was plain. “Of course.”
“I regret you were ever put in that position, but if the same choices were placed before me now, I would end it the same way.” He reached out and touched the place where her neck had been bandaged. “Perhaps I would have fired sooner.”
She covered his fingers and smiled. “John, you have spent the past few weeks tending to me. Whether it was my physical desires or my wellbeing, you have not thought once of yourself.”
“A few times I have,” he said with a smile that warmed her. He could still seduce, which gave her hope for his recovery when she was gone.
“You know what I mean. Please allow me to take care of you now.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips to his. “Please, let me take away some of the ugliness of today and replace it with good.”
He nodded as he lifted her onto his lap. She kissed him, tracing his tongue with her own, tasting him, sucking him, feeling him relax into her touch the way he deserved to do after today. She massaged his shoulders as he leaned back against the settee and was rewarded by the feel of his hardening erection against her thigh.
He groaned as she pulled away from his kiss and stared down at him in the firelight. They did not speak, but neither of them looked away as she stood up and stripped out of her gown to stand before him naked. He lifted his hips and removed his trousers but never got to his shirt because she straddled him as soon as his cock was naked and speared herself down over him in one heated thrust.
“Great God,” he groaned out.
She smiled as she began to rock her hips. Each thrust was slow and seductive, building the pleasure of the joining in inches rather than miles. They might not have forever anymore, but they had the whole night and she was in no rush to bring their joining to an end.
He lifted his hips to hasten what she would not, lifting her almost off the settee in his enthusiasm to drive deeper, to claim faster, and the edge on which she teetered rapidly became too unsteady. She found herself falling into orgasm, deep and slow, that rocked her as she continued to ride him, ride him, ride him.
“There is nothing better than seeing you come,” he growled and then his face contorted with pleasure and he burst within her, filling her with his essence until they collapsed together, arms around each other, breath matched in pants.
She held him for a long time, smoothing her hands along his back as she rested her head in the crook of his shoulder and appreciated the way their bodies were still joined, their heartbeats matched.
He sighed and the painful sound broke the spell. “I shall need to speak to the vicar tomorrow about rescheduling the wedding. I would think we could repeat this next weekend, though hopefully with less high drama.”
She drew back and stared at him. He seemed utterly serious. With a gasp, she got to her feet and lifted her chemise up to cover herself.
“John, we shall not marry now.”
He stared at her. “What? Of course we will.”
“No. We will not.” She drew the chemise over her head and folded her arms. “I do appreciate your continued attempts to make this right, but the reason you were marrying me was that you felt it was imperative to protect me from your father. Now that
the threat is gone there is no need for me to be your wife. I cannot fulfill that place.”
He stared at her. “Do you say this because of what my father tried to do to you today?”
She stepped toward him before she could stop herself. “No. I could no more judge you for his actions than I would judge anyone else in this house. John—” She cut herself off and then sat down next to him. She took his hand and forced herself to look into his eyes. “John, I cannot marry you because I love you.”
He jolted and she forced herself not to look away from him in embarrassment.
“I don’t understand how such an emotion should make a marriage less palatable,” he said, his voice unreadable. “I would think it would make you desire such a union between us all the more.”
She forced a smile. “Almost dying today made me want to live. It made me want a future. But with you…with you there would be no future. What you have proposed would become a prison to us both. To you because you do not love me and to me because I do.”
He stared at her. “And that is your only reason for refusal?”
She nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“And what if I could offer you a future, rather than a prison?”
She stared at him. His handsome face was virtually unreadable and she struggled to decide if he was serious or not.
“How could you do that?” she asked. “I doubt either of us could change our feelings.”
“No,” he admitted and her heart sank. “My feelings are set in stone, I’m afraid. But I can tell you they are not what you believe them to be.”
“I—I don’t understand,” she said, unable to bring her voice to a level above a scant whisper.
“No, I have made sure of that over the past few weeks, hell, over the past few years. But I want to correct that. I…” He hesitated. “I love you, Mariah.”
Her mouth dropped open and she stared at him. She was dreaming. Except when she pinched herself, she remained just where she was, only with a sore spot tingling her arm.
“I do want a wife,” he continued. “To protect me as much as I protect her. To be a partner. A friend. A lover. That wife is you. It could only ever be you.”
She rose to her feet and backed away, still uncertain that what was happening was real. “Please don’t say these things if you do not mean them. It will only make everything worse in the end.”
“I mean what I say,” he promised as he got up and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You should know that to be true, if nothing else. I love you. I shall love you until the end of my days. And I want to marry you. Now.”
She stared at him. There was nothing disingenuous about what he said. He looked her straight in the eye. And in his face she saw something she never would have expected or hoped for.
She saw love. Love for her. Hope for their future.
She cupped his cheeks. “When did this happen?”
He laughed. “I have been trying to track that very answer,” he said. “And I believe I fell in love with you the first moment I saw you. I was only too daft, too stubborn to admit it. But now that I have, I wish to scream it from the rooftops, to announce it in the middle of the street. But you have not yet answered my question.”
“Your question,” she repeated, still stricken by this shocking turn.
“Marry me,” he repeated gently.
“I will,” she whispered. “I will very happily.”
And he leaned down to kiss her and swept her away.
About the Author
Jess Michaels is the award-winning author of more than ten erotic romances. She lives in Arizona with her fantastic husband and two adorable cats. While not writing about sexy gentleman and wicked ladies, she can be found doing geeky things like playing video games and performing aunt duties to two nephews. You can find her online at www.authorjessmichaels.com, on Facebook (Jenna Petersen) and on Twitter @jennaromance
Look for these titles by Jess Michaels
Now Available:
Mistress Matchmaker
An Introduction to Pleasure
Coming Soon:
Mistress Matchmaker
Her Perfect Match
The Pleasure Wars
Taken by the Duke
Beauty and the Earl
An innocent lady’s education could be a gentleman’s wicked seduction.
An Introduction to Pleasure
© 2012 Jess Michaels
Mistress Matchmaker, Book 1
Lysandra Keates is running out of options. Her father is dead, her mother is ill, and her efforts to find respectable employment have ended in failure. With her small savings bleeding away, she swallows her pride—and her terror—and turns to Vivien Manning, an infamous courtesan, to match her with a wealthy protector.
For years, Viscount Andrew Callis has lived a monastic existence at his country estate, hardening his body against the snobbish, lazy young man he once was, hardening his heart against grief over the deaths of his wife and infant son. When Vivien asks him to spend one month training a young woman in the ways of a mistress, his mind resists…but his body responds with an ache he thought long dead.
As Andrew begins his gentle tutelage, he finds himself falling under the spell of Lysandra’s innocent charms. And as they give in to the powerful hunger, the last thing Andrew ever expected, or wanted, forms between them. An emotional connection that could carry them well past the training period—if only Andrew can open his heart to the possibility of love.
Warning: Includes training in all kinds of sexual positions and delights, as well as an emotional romance. May produce swooning.
Enjoy the following excerpt for An Introduction to Pleasure:
“Good afternoon, Miss Keates. I’m Carlsworth, your butler.”
Lysandra’s head was spinning. She hadn’t had the advantage of servants for…well, she could scarce remember how long. And even in her father’s house, it hadn’t been a butler! There had been a cook, a maid she and her mother had shared and a man her father used for all kinds of duties, but that was all.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Keates?” Carlsworth asked as he took a step toward her. “You are very pale.”
“I’m sorry, Carlsworth,” she said, breathless. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I find I am a bit overwhelmed.”
“Of course,” he said, his tone as kind as could be. “You must be quite tired. Lord Callis has sent word that he will be calling within the half hour. Would you like to wait for him in the parlor while we ready your room? I’ll call for your tea.”
Lysandra blinked. So she was to be waited on like a princess?
“Miss?” he asked.
She shook her head. The servants would think her a daft princess, indeed, if she continued to stare at them like a fool.
“Thank you, that sounds very nice.” She followed his indication of one of the open doors in the hallway and stepped into a parlor.
Immediately, she fell in love. The parlor wasn’t imposing like Andrew’s was or ridiculous and showy like her cousin’s, but it fit her perfectly. It had been painted in warm greys and blues, with fine furniture that seemed as comfortable as it was pretty. There were very few decorations beyond a handful of paintings and a clock on the mantel, but the lack of décor didn’t bother Lysandra. She was too busy being utterly mesmerized by the fact that, at least for a little while, this home was hers to enjoy.
Behind her, there was the clearing of a throat, and she turned to watch a maid come inside with a serving plate of tea and a few sandwiches.
“Cook wasn’t certain what you liked,” the girl explained as she set the entire platter on the sideboard. “So she gave you a few selections. When you meet with her, you’ll have to tell her your favorites.”
Lysandra blinked in disbelief and stared at the girl. “H-hello.”
She smiled. “I’m Candace, miss. I’m your downstairs maid.”
“M-my downstairs maid?” she repeated, once again daft in her confusion and disbelief.
> The girl nodded. “I do the cleaning and tidying. Your ladies maid is Faith, and she is upstairs readying your room. Cook is Eliza, but we all just call her Cook because it makes her laugh. You’ve already met Carlsworth and Wilkes, of course.”
Lysandra continued to nod, regardless of the fact that her eyes were beginning to hurt from being so wide.
“We’re all at your service, Miss Keates,” the girl pressed. “Ring for any of us any time.”
“Thank you,” Lysandra breathed. “I shall do so.”
She said the words, but she could scarcely picture herself doing so. Ringing for assistance like the lady of a manor! When just that morning she had woken in the uncomfortable confines of one of the worst rooming houses in London.
“I’ll go now. Lord Callis will be here shortly.”
Lysandra forced both her attention back to the girl and a smile as Candace stepped from the room. Once she was gone, Lysandra sank into the closest chair and let her breath out all at once.
“Dear God, I am a ninny,” she said to herself. “They are going to talk and laugh about me below stairs.”
That she knew for a fact. After all, she had done the same in her former employer’s home. Right before he…
Well, there was no use thinking about that. Not right now. Right now she had to prepare for Andrew’s arrival. She looked down at herself. Her worn gown didn’t really fit in this pretty home, but it was what she had and there was no use feeling badly about that.
She caught a glimpse of a mirror hanging above the fireplace and moved in front of it. She grimaced. But for the faint circles beneath her eyes that seemed to be a permanent fixture anymore, she looked well enough, she supposed. But would “well enough” be good enough? Wasn’t a mistress supposed to be outrageously beautiful and alluring? Seductive and sophisticated like Vivien was?
For Desire Alone Page 21