A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2)

by Natasha Blackthorne

  But he merely lifted his head and stared down at her with serious eyes. “Winterton.”

  “Oh.”

  This was a huge, heavy lead weight dropping into her belly.

  This was not what she had expected.

  But she should have. Forgetting about Winterton was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

  “I will not have him believe even for a second that you are without my protection,” Adrian said. He squeezed her hands. “Come, let’s get up and I will dress and then I shall take you by your boarding house so that you can change into fresh evening clothes.”

  Chapter Four

  There was a sudden lull in the low rumble of voices.

  All around, men came to attention, their gazes focusing in on Miranda. Their faces brightened, their eyes widened and they seemed to stand taller.

  A stab of pure male pride hit Adrian, shocking him.

  He had thought himself above such an emotion.

  It was unworthy.

  A man did not gain anything in himself from merely having a beautiful, well-dressed, well-coifed woman at his side.

  Yet, still that feeling was there. He tried to push it down but it wouldn’t be vanquished or suppressed. It filled him with a sense of renewed energy, anticipation and an undeniable joy to be male and alive.

  Again, she was bringing out things in him he’d rather not have to admit. Showing him sides of himself he had not even guessed lurked under the control he tried to maintain. Under the image of himself as something better than his father and his grandfather.

  Excessive drinking, hard fucking, feckless gambling, rash decisions, maudlin emotional self-indulgence—He had thought to escape the weaknesses of the Sutherland men.

  But had he?

  The decision to keep company with Miranda had been a rash one.

  How soon until he began making rash decisions that would affect his carefully rebuilt finances and reputation?

  Several of the brasher young puppies called out to Miranda or made sounds to indicate their general pleasure in seeing her. Their hopes to attain her affections.

  Adrian realized that he had increased his hold on her arm. Without thinking.

  But was it natural protectiveness or something worse, like base possessiveness?

  “I love you, Miss Jones!”

  The impassioned call cut into Adrian’s thoughts.

  Laughter erupted.

  Adrian glanced at Miranda, and found her making eye contact with the Earl of Dawlings, the young heir to the Duke of Alnwick.

  Miranda smiled then placed her closed fan to her lips. Briefly.

  Hot, bilious jealous burned through Adrian’s gut.

  Miranda could feel the tension pouring off Adrian. Dressed to fashionable perfection in his expertly tailored dark evening attire, his magnificently, darkly gorgeous looks and leanly-muscled masculine build had drawn many feminine eyes, something that had provoked Miranda’s jealousy. But it was Miranda he had selected as his mistress. Miranda that he was so madly, deeply, desperately in love with.

  Why then was he sitting beside her here in this luxurious private box, his back rigid, his expression stony? With her heart in her throat, she attempted a smile at him.

  He did not even look her way.

  She turned her attention back to the theatre with its glittering chandeliers and all the ladies in their elegant evening attire and their gentlemen in their dark clothes. She began to feel overheated, a little lightheaded.

  She took out her fan and began to cool her face.

  She had known they shouldn’t come out together so soon and face the world. She had known they ought to strengthen what they had together, alone. Well, she ought to have used all her wiles, all her skills to make him stay at home.

  But she hadn’t wanted things to be with Adrian as they had been with Carrville. She wanted them to be something different. Something real.

  Suddenly, Adrian leapt to his feet and jerked the curtains to their box closed.

  With her heart pounding, she gazed up at him, her mouth falling open. “Adrian?”

  He didn’t answer. Didn’t even appear to have heard her.

  He was staring down at her.

  No, not starting. Scowling.

  “You offered the Earl of Dawlings a kiss, with your fan, did you not?”

  She caught her breath. Some habits continued without thought. She shook her head. “He’s just a boy.”

  “He’s young but he’s no boy.”

  She turned her palms up in a gesture of designed to ask for pity. “He’s terribly self-conscious, especially around women. I simply try to be nice, to be encouraging.”

  “He made you a respectable offer of support not so long ago, did he not?”

  She put her hand to her collarbone as shock washed over her. “How would you know that?”

  “His older sister was appalled. She told Dorothy.”

  Dorothy. Adrian’s sister-in-law and lover. How intimately her name rolled off his tongue.

  Jealousy coursed through Miranda’s veins. Did Adrian intend to continue to see his noble lady lover?

  She had been so giddily happy the past hours that she had not even thought to ask.

  “I rejected his offer.”

  “Because you were waiting for Froster to make his?”

  Indignation washed over. “No, my lord, because Dawlish is too young to be making any courtesan such an offer.”

  “Eighteen is not that young.”

  She lifted her chin. “It is for him. He’s not the same as other young men. He has been slower to mature. He doesn’t even know his own mind yet.”

  Adrian frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, all but glowering now.

  She spent a moment or two, cooling her face, the subject of the fierce scowl. Then she dropped her fan and sighed. “It was thoughtless of me to have made the gesture. It was just… habit.”

  He didn’t soften.

  “I am sorry, my lord.”

  She hoped he would accept that and return to his seat. He kept studying her.

  “Must you wear such…” he paused then his frown deepened as he made a sweeping gesture over her bodice. “Must you wear such sparkly attire?”

  The consternation stamped on his handsome face, the sharpness of his voice, made her catch her breath.

  She ran a hand over the jets on her sapphire-colored bodice, too shocked by his change of mood to gather her wits enough to respond. She glanced down and stared at the glittering jets, as though she might be able to see the answer there.

  “Yes, that,” he said gritty.

  She jerked her gazed back to his.

  He was still scowling, his jaw held tightly.

  “You object to this gown?” Disbelief rang in her tone. He had just said earlier how much he admired her in the garment. How well the color suited her.

  His sensual mouth twisted, giving his expression just a touch of self-mockery. “What I object to is the attention it draws to you.” His voice became a little hoarse. “To your breasts.”

  He brought his hand close above the offending bodice and allowed the back of his hand to caress where her breasts swelled.

  The touch of his smooth leather glove sent a shiver of pleasure tingling over her flesh. Her nipples pulled tight. A volley of reactive shivers shuddered deep, deep into her belly. However, the continued sternness of his expression sent an edge of apprehension through her. Making her mouth dry.

  She licked her lips.

  He looked up at her.

  His vivid blue gaze seemed even more luminescent in the soft lamplight. The beauty transfixed her.

  “I am a courtesan,” she said, making her voice as soft, as tender as she could. “This is how all my gowns are. They are meant to—”

  “They are meant to tease and torment men with lust.”

  “They are meant to highlight my role. To maintain the stylish image that others expect.”

  “Hmm” he said, his tone a degree softer.

&
nbsp; Yet, she sensed the tension underneath and she watched as he settled his hand into the valley between her breasts. Cold metal touched her.

  His signet ring.

  There was something indecent about that proper, official emblem of his family name, his rank pressed to her intimate flesh. Here, in public, so close to his peers and even more scandalously the daughters, sisters and wives of his peers.

  The sight was also flagrantly erotic.

  “You mean your role and the image others expect from a courtesan?” he asked, his voice low and oddly, coldly sensual.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And here I thought you were something altogether different now.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  He pressed his knuckles more firmly, the metal pressing her softness.

  Marking her with his family crest.

  “Miranda.” His voice held a note of censure. “You are no longer a courtesan, a girl whose time and attentions one might purchase for the right price.”

  He continued to press his signet ring into the tender valley between her breasts.

  That combined with his words, sent a shiver down her spine.

  Her heart began to hammer against her chest wall. Her mouth went even drier.

  “Adrian…” She made her voice soft, a tender appeal.

  His jaw hardened, his gaze turned cold. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” she asked, her voice hoarse with her quickening breath.

  “Don’t use your courtesan’s wiles on me.”

  “I am a courtesan,” she said, firmly. “I must keep my image intact, no matter if I happen to belong to you at present or not.”

  “I see.” His voice had gone soft.

  That softness held a steely edge that sent more chills of apprehension down her spine. But if only she could make him understand. Then he would see things differently. She swallowed, hard, and went on, trying to explain. “I must pay attention to how I appear when I am out in Society.”

  He nodded, jerkily. “Of course, you must keep all your options open.”

  She held up a forestalling hand, pressing it against his lapel, her glove glowing white against the dark wool. “No, no I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “It is the truth, though, isn’t it?” He laughed, softly, the sound held the edge of bitter cynicism.

  “Adrian…”

  “Never lie to me. We both know that you aren’t exactly maximizing your options. All you need is to find a gentleman who sympathizes better with your… limits than Froster did.”

  The mention of the Duke of Froster brought to mind all the advantage noblemen held over her. Brought to mind her need for their financial support, for their protection.

  Aristocrats held all the power.

  They always had.

  They always would.

  And now she had allowed herself to fall in love with one of them.

  She had delivered herself right into the jaws of the lion.

  With a rising sense of panic, she mindlessly glanced about the box for the exit.

  His chair made a groaning creak as he lunged towards her. His arm latched about her waist. She made to jump to her feet but his body was a solid, immovable barrier to her escape. His arm tightened like an iron band.

  Her heart’s beat increased all the harder.

  He pressed her down into the chair and bent over her. The scent of his cologne swept over her.

  Imprisoned by his tall, leanly muscled body, she felt arousal and real fear of his masculine strength war within her.

  He leaned into her neck, his breath hot against her ear. “You’re mine.” His arm tightened about her waist. His teeth grazed the hollow beneath her ear.

  Sparks of pleasure went chasing down to her nipples, making them harden.

  “You’re mine now.”

  Emotions rose within her. Too many and too conflicting for her to handle. She cried out with the intensity of them.

  He bit at her neck, lightly. But not too lightly. “Mine.”

  His mouth fastened on her neck, kissing, licking, sucking, as though he were starving for the taste of her.

  Wetness flooded between her legs. The sudden surge of desire confused her. Then her heart thudded with pure fear. She pushed at him, hard.

  He tightened his hold. “I won’t stand for infidelity.”

  “Adrian…”

  “You needn’t parade yourself around in glittering gowns, paint on your face, reeking of your expensive perfumes—enticing the offers of other men. You have me now.”

  Her brain finally focused on one single thought. “You’ll tire of me!”

  “No. Never.”

  “Yes…” She swallowed. “Yes! You will. All noblemen tire of their toys.”

  “Miranda—”

  “No, you listen to me now!” Her voice was a sharp whisper. “I know you’ll tire of me and then I’ll need someone else… a new protector. You can’t ask that I become dowdy and—”

  “Find someone else?” He growled the words against her neck. “Did you not listen to me? You belong to me now.”

  “Now yes. For now, I am yours, all yours.” She attempted to assure him, to touch his cheek, not because she had softened but because she sought to soften him.

  To gain an advantage that she might use to escape. To assuage that gnawing, clawing sense that she must run now.

  Or she would lose herself.

  Possibly forever.

  He grasped her hand, roughly. “I’ll never let you go.”

  “Yes, it is the way of the world.” She couldn’t help letting her bitterness bleed into her tone.

  “It is not the way between us.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I know that you are mine now.” He gripped her jaw and lowered his head as though he would kiss her.

  “I’ve told you before my lord.” Her voice shook and she stiffened herself, attempting to steel herself and glared at him. “I will not tolerate force.”

  Suddenly, he seemed to change, his body froze against hers. “You’re shaking.” He let go her chin then touched her bared arms, above her long gloves.

  She flinched.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, running his hands lightly up and down.

  She shook her head. She wasn’t cold. She was terrified.

  Of his aristocratic will.

  Yes, she had known him to be an arrogant man, previously disdainful of her.

  But his tenderness towards her, her growing ardor for him had led her to sort of temporary blindness.

  He was a nobleman like any other, raised with a sense of entitlement, with a shameless sense of his own power over others.

  And seeing her own ability to blind herself to his traits, his flaws, sent another wave of terror through her.

  “I want to leave.”

  He went rigid, his hands gripping her arms. “Why does that sound so final?”

  She shook her head, woodenly. “Please, I want to leave. Now.”

  “You mean you want to leave me.” His tone was hard, flat.

  “I just need to get out of here.”

  Through the brightly lit lobby, it was Adrian’s hand on her arm, leading her, that gave her the strength to face the few stragglers who remained even though the act had begun on stage.

  Adrian, always Adrian making her feel protected.

  Comforted.

  Yet, he had been the one who had so unnerved her. Her tendency to allow his gentleness to sway her, her weakness to him alarmed her as never before.

  Now outside, again dry mouthed and inwardly sharking in fear of her own reactions to this enigmatic nobleman, she didn’t know what to think. Or what to do.

  “Perhaps I should hail a hackney,” she said.

  His face contorted, with tenderness.

  She gestured towards the line of hired carriages waiting. “Please, it would be better for both—”

  He took the edges of her open pelisse. “Hush.”

  “Adrian…�
��

  “Not here.” He pulled the edges together and fastened the frogs.

  She fought the softening that his solicitous care caused. How ridiculous. No grown woman should turn into a pile of mush because a man took a moment to fasten her wrap.

  But it did make her melt.

  He could be so wonderfully tender. She craved that tenderness like she needed air.

  She steeled herself and pulled away from him, turning towards the line of public conveyances. “No, I should—”

  He caught her hand. “Miranda…”

  Something in his tone, a note of utter sincerity, a note of supplication.

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  He leaned close. “I was a jackanapes.”

  The simplicity, the vulgarity—and yes, the complete truth of his statement made her pause.

  “You’re still overset.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re still shaking.”

  She gaped at him.

  “Let me take you home. Let me take care of you.” He lifted her arm and placed it in the crook of his arm. “I won’t ask for more than that.

  “Adrian, please, I don’t think—”

  “I made a mistake. I hurt you. I want to make it up to you.”

  The sincerity in his eyes, in his voice created a tugging sensation within her. She wanted to turn and face him completely and to allow him to draw her into his embrace.

  Against that tall, lean body.

  The leanly muscled body that had held her firm whilst he had issued his demands.

  Panic jolted through her. She pulled away, harder this time.

  He let her go.

  She set off for the line of hired vehicles.

  Chapter Five

  Miranda shivered and pulled her shawl more snugly about herself. How cold her rooms seemed. She had never noticed how drafty the windows were.

  She had donned her heaviest flannel nightdress and built a cheery fire. She had drunk a steaming mug of tea and brandy.

  But nothing could warm her.

  The clock on the hearth chimed. One single chime, a lonely, forlorn sound.

  She dropped her chin to her knees and stared into the flames.

  You’re mine…mine now.

  His words echoed endlessly in her mind. Just as they had the entire way home in the hackney.

  She had been mistress to a man she loved for scarcely a full night and day.