A Regency Unlaced Novella
The Duke’s Mistress
By
Carole Mortimer
USA Today Bestselling Author
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2015 Carole Mortimer
Cover Design Copyright © Glass Slipper Designs
Editor: Linda Ingmanson
Formatter: Matthew Mortimer
ISBN: 978-1-910597-14-9 (mobi)
ISBN: 978-1-910597-13-2 (ePub)
This is a work of fiction. Namees, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved.
DEDICATIONS
My Wonderful Family
Chapter 1
May 1816
London.
The hatred churned and roiled inside her as she sat in the shabby hackney coach, watching as Blackmoor’s handsome black town carriage drew to a stop in front of a house a short distance away, in Berkeley Square.
She felt so much hatred, it now consumed her every waking moment, and many of her sleeping ones too. Her nights had become full of dreams in which she took her revenge on Blackmoor.
It consumed her now too, as she watched Blackmoor step down from his carriage before straightening to his full and impressive height. He replaced his hat upon his head before turning to glance about him with those cold and merciless gray eyes.
Almost as if he sensed someone watching him.
Someone.
He would never suspect that someone was her.
Oh no, the high and mighty Blackmoor had no idea she was even in England’s capital. How could he when she had ensured the man he had sent to spy on her all these years was no longer alive to tell him?
She laughed inwardly at the knowledge Blackmoor had no idea she had been in London for over a week now. There was also an irony in knowing she had paid for her passage to England with the money she had stolen from the man who worked for Blackmoor. A man who had also deserved to die.
It was years since she had been in London, but little had changed in society since she was last here. There had always been gentlemen then looking for a woman with whom they could be unfaithful to their long-suffering wives, and there were now too. In her case, it was an elderly gentleman who believed the two of them had met by accident at one of the museums.
Men were so gullible. Especially the older ones. Always so quick to believe anything when confronted with a woman’s tears. Shilton had certainly believed her false name and her story of a hero husband killed in the war against Napoleon and the hardships of widowhood she had suffered since his death. So much so it had not taken much persuasion for him to provide her with a modest house to live in, with a maid, a footman, and a cook to care for her needs. All he required in exchange was the occasional use of her body.
She tapped on the roof of the cab and then leaned forward to speak to the driver of the cab through the black widow’s veil that obscured her face. “The name of the house across the square?”
“That be Latham House, m’lady.”
Ah, the home of the Earl of Latham and his family.
The future in-laws of the child.
Amelia.
So named in honor of her paternal grandmother.
The hatred twisted inside her again at the memory of the now-deceased Dowager Duchess of Blackmoor. The old harridan had never approved of her.
None of them had.
And now the Remington family must all be made to pay for that condescension.
Julian Remington, the Duke of Blackmoor, most especially must be made to suffer as she was now suffering.
Chapter 2
Latham House,
Berkeley Square, London.
Thea desired a lover.
Not wanted one. Nor needed one. But she most certainly desired and ached for one.
A young widow living within the household of her widowed brother—as a family, they did seem to have the most appalling misfortune when it came to the longevity of their spouses—she had become so bored of late with the tedious round of activities being mistress of the house entailed. Especially so on afternoons such as this one, when she was called upon to play hostess to the stultifying company of the dozen or so ladies attending her regular Wednesday at home.
Here they all sat in the blue salon of the Earl of Latham’s London home, drinking tea and twittering on about her nephew George’s wedding next month to Amelia Remington, the beautiful daughter of the widowed Duke of Blackmoor. Along with the current dress and bonnet fashions, and the latest scandalous gossip circulating amongst the ton.
Afternoons, Thea had begun to think, could be far more pleasurably spent in the arms of a lover.
The ladies’ voices faded from her conscious thought and hearing as her lids fluttered closed, her breathing becoming soft and tremulous as she allowed her thoughts to drift off to her imaginary lover.
He would be young and handsome, of course. And virile. Oh yes, most of all he must be virile, and versed in all the ways there were to make love to a woman that would give her the most satisfaction, as well as himself.
Her late husband, Lord Henry Fitzroy, had been twenty-five years her senior, but even so, he had possessed very little in the way of experience or interest in exploring the possibilities when it came to lovemaking. A short and rotund gentleman, and pleasantly kind of nature, he had failed to inspire flights of romantic fancy in his young bride.
In Thea’s imagination, her lover would be physically demanding and tireless, perhaps even a little merciless as he teased and tormented her by holding her pleasure at bay until he was ready to allow her release. After which he would take her to those heights time and time again, until she was too weak, too physically satiated to do anything more than groan and cry out weakly at the intensity of that constant and unrelenting physical onslaught.
She had accepted long ago that she was not, nor would she ever be, a great beauty. Her hair was too red and her figure too slender. Her one saving grace during her two Seasons on the marriage mart had been that she was the daughter, and now the sister, of an earl. When Henry offered for her during that second season, her father had considered it a more than suitable match for her.
She had been fond of and comfortable with Henry during their four years of marriage, but what she had really longed for was excitement in her lover, even a touch of danger.
It was after one of those perfunctory couplings with Henry that Thea had first explored her own aching and needy body, and discovered how much she liked for her nipples to be tweaked and pulled, and occasionally pinched.
Further exploration, encouraged by the heat which had gathered between her thighs, had revealed she was very slick and wet there from excitement. That there was also an erect and sensitive nubbin hidden there beneath a hood of flesh. A nubbin that grew even more erect the longer she touched and stroked it, almost like a small cock. It throbbed and pulsed like a small cock too when her stroking grew harder and faster, until she gasped in surprise as unimagined pleasure exploded between her thighs and throughout her whole body, that release also producing an abundance of fluid that gushed from the opening to her sheath.
It had taken several nights for Thea to learn of all the pleasures to be found in her own body. Enjoyable explorations during which she had discovered there was a knot of nerves inside her sheath which, once stimulated by her stroking fingers, also caused her to burst into that combustion of breathtaking pleasure.
For some inexplicable reason, the thoughts of a man pleasuring her in that
way, of his large cock thrusting between her silky thighs, had become more and more frequent of late. Thoughts that so often excited and thrilled her.
As they did now.
Thea drew in a gasping breath as she quickly opened her eyes and gave an anxious glance about the salon to see if any of the ladies present were observing her as she sat there on the edge of her seat, almost on the point of orgasm. Thankfully, they were all too engrossed in their own gossip to have noticed her distraction or the reason for it.
Dear Lord, she must be more in need of a lover than she had imagined if she was allowing herself to become aroused by her thoughts amongst such genteel company, and in the middle of the afternoon.
It was all so futile too, an impossibility to think that someone as plain and proper as she would ever find such a physically adept and powerful lover—
“His Grace, the Duke of Blackmoor, my lady.”
Such a shocked silence instantly fell upon all the visiting ladies that Cross, the Latham family butler, might just as well have announced one of the downstairs maids was running naked in the garden, as the arrival of Julian Rupert Sylvester Remington, the 7th Duke of Blackmoor.
The stunned silence was only compounded as the duke now strode into the salon.
His cold gray gaze moved swiftly and disdainfully over the assembled ladies before finally coming to rest upon a still-seated Thea. “I wish to speak with you in private.” No polite greeting, no compliments of the day, just a statement of fact.
Thea clasped her gloved hands together in front of her as she rose slowly to her feet, as disconcerted by the duke’s arrival as the rest of the ladies present. “I believe my brother is in his study.” As Blackmoor was shortly to become father-in-law to her nephew George, she could only suppose he had called in order to discuss the alliance. Although she believed the marriage contract had been signed some weeks ago.
“If I had wished to speak with your brother, then I would have asked for him,” the duke informed her impatiently. “If you would excuse us, ladies?” He looked pointedly towards where the stoic Cross still stood in the doorway.
The duke’s voice was so deep and commanding, it was enough to send shivers of apprehension down Thea’s spine. At least she believed them to be shivers of apprehension; they bore a startling resemblance to the quivers of pleasure that consumed her during those fantasies involving her imaginary lover.
Perhaps because Julian Remington, as well as being one of the most arrogant and domineering of gentlemen, also happened to be one of the most strikingly handsome.
Indeed, as her gaze drifted down to assess the bulge at the front of the duke’s pantaloons, she realized with a flash of alarm that it was he she had been thinking of just now when she imagined having a large and thrusting cock inside her.
Aged seven and thirty, the duke stood several inches over six feet tall, with muscular shoulders and a wide chest that surely must task the abilities of his tailor. He also had a flat abdomen, lean hips, and long legs.
As usual, he was dressed in his somber black. Thea had always wondered, but never dared to ask, if he wore the color out of love and respect for his long-dead wife. Whatever the reason, he wore an impeccable black superfine today, his linen snowy white, waistcoat a deep gray, with paler gray pantaloons above black and highly polished Hessians.
His black hair, as was the fashion, was in a slightly overlong style that curled about his ears and nape. Chilling gray eyes viewed the world with disdain. His nose was aristocratic between high cheekbones, his mouth full and sculpted above a square and determined jaw.
Impossible to believe that this arrogantly disdainful gentleman had been born the spare rather than the heir to the dukedom. Unfortunately, his older brother, Robert, a contemporary of Thea’s brother Daniel, had died unexpectedly at the age of four and twenty, necessitating that his younger brother become the duke in his stead.
A further shock to the ton had been the marriage of Julian Remington just a week after assuming the title. Although that hasty marriage was explained when a daughter was born into the marriage a mere six months later, only for the new duchess to then succumb to a fever and die when Amelia was still a baby.
Thea knew nothing of these events, of course, still being in the nursery herself at the time. The death of the duke’s wife had raised the hopes of all the marriage-minded mamas in Society. Hopes that had been raised in vain, because Julian Remington still remained a widower when Thea had her first Season. Nor had he ever shown the slightest inclination to remarry in the years since.
Even though he had long been considered the most handsome and eligible gentleman in all of England.
Whispered rumors also hinted that his prowess in the bedchamber was just as unrivaled.
Thea now questioned whether or not these rumors were not responsible for the increase of late in the wildness of her sexual longings.
If that was the case, then she would be forced to continue fantasizing in vain.
For not only was Julian Remington far beyond the reach of a woman as plain as she, he was also the most arrogant, the most condescending, and certainly the most infuriatingly disdainful gentleman it had ever been her misfortune to become acquainted with.
He was also so powerful, socially and politically, that many in society, both men and women, openly feared him.
A point proven by the way in which all the other ladies in the room had risen quickly to their feet and now murmured their hasty good-byes and thank-yous to Thea before making an undignified scramble towards the doorway in their haste to escape.
Thea’s auburn brows rose as Cross closed the door behind himself and the last flustered lady before presumably showing them all the front door. “One day you really must tell me how you do that,” she murmured with admiration.
Julian wondered if his ears were deceiving him, or if the always-proper Lady Dorothea Fitzroy really had just complimented him on his rudeness to her female guests.
If she had, then it would be the first time she had shown even a hint of approval for anything he did or said.
He observed Lady Dorothea now from beneath hooded lids. Something he had found himself doing more than once during the weeks since his daughter, Amelia, became betrothed to this lady’s nephew.
Perhaps because he sensed hidden depths beneath that calm exterior? Dark and sensual depths that called to deep and primitive needs of his own. Desires which did not necessitate she be a great beauty.
Which was perhaps as well, because she was not.
Of mid height and middling looks, and with a figure too slender, Lady Dorothea’s only claim to beauty must surely be that fiery-red hair arranged so fashionably about her undistinguished features. Well, undistinguished apart from the deep-green eyes currently regarding him with cool query.
The latter possibly because he had not, as yet, made the polite greeting of a gentleman caller?
Julian crossed the room with his usual impatience before taking and bending over the gloved hand she held out to him.
His nostrils flared as his senses were instantly assaulted with the scent of a woman’s musk. That tantalizing perfume produced between a woman’s thighs when she was aroused. In Lady Dorothea, it was a flowery and potently spicy musk. A perfume so powerful, his cock instantly began to engorge with interest.
Julian straightened slowly as he assessed the lady’s countenance. Unless he was mistaken, there was a feverish glitter to those green eyes, and a becoming flush to her normally pale cheeks. As further proof of her arousal?
His gaze lowered to the swell of her breasts as they quickly rose and fell beneath the rounded neckline of her pale green gown. Was that the outline of engorged nipples he could see pressing against the material?
Julian breathed in that delicious scent again. Not just of musk but also of heat, implying the juncture of the lady’s thighs was currently very slick and very wet with her juices.
But for whom?
Lady Dorothea had been surrounded by a gaggle of g
ossiping women when he arrived, but he had certainly never heard any rumors of her being of that inclination. Which was not to say she was not, of course. Gossip rarely reached his ears, and if it did, it held little or no interest for him.
Could another explanation for the perfume of Lady Dorothea’s arousal be that she had only recently left the arms of her lover and not had time to bathe before the arrival of her afternoon guests?
A possibility that, for some inexplicable reason, displeased him immensely.
She really did smell edible. An addictive scent that continued to make his cock throb. No doubt she would taste as sinfully delicious—
“Your Grace?”
His jaw tightened as he realized he was still holding Lady Dorothea’s gloved hand. No doubt also the reason for her current expression of confusion.
He released her hand immediately before stepping back so that musky scent was no longer invading and clouding his senses. “My daughter informed me at luncheon today that, as the father of the bride, I am expected to dance the second dance at the wedding next month with you.”
Thea was pleased for her nephew in having made such an illustrious match as a duke’s daughter, and Amelia was certainly a darling girl. But the duke, having given his approval to the match, and duly made the announcement in the appropriate newspapers, had then chosen to remain aloof from any and all of the wedding arrangements.
Not that Thea’s brother Daniel had been of any more assistance, both those gentlemen seeming to feel they had fulfilled their part of the bargain by drawing up the marriage contract and bestowing their blessing upon the union. The wedding itself offered no interest to either gentleman.
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