by Lavinia Kent
Could you scream at your protector? Provider? She refused to call him master, even if it did seem that it should go with mistress. What did she call the blasted man? He certainly was not her lover.
“I will leave it to you, then,” she answered with complete calm.
“That would be best. I am trying to prevent you from having worries.” He sounded sincere.
“Thank you,” she replied, hiding her emotions.
“I am glad you appreciate my efforts.” He nodded.
Forget yelling at him. She was going to strangle him. Or at least kick him—and hard. One of the other maids had taught her exactly where to aim. She wouldn’t have to worry about whether he was her lover then.
He considered her a moment before saying, “I do think perhaps it would be best if you went to my uncle’s house for tonight. I do apparently still own it and have been informed that it is unoccupied except for the staff.”
“Your uncle’s house?” Understanding filled her. “You mean his mistress’s house. I thought I explained that I did not wish to go there.”
“I do not see that there is another choice, no matter what either of us might wish. I would put you up at a hotel, but that would be less than discreet.”
Oh, how she wanted to argue. The problem was she needed to be discreet also. She didn’t know which would be worse, if the men seeking her found her or if her family learned what she was about to do.
Violet had taken lovers, but she had taken care never to be any man’s mistress. She said that it was unwise for a woman to let a man support her outside of marriage, that such situations never ended well. Not, she had added, that marriage offered any guarantee. Men were men and were often beastly.
Isabella glanced over at Strattington.
She seemed to be taking it well—or at least acceptably. Mark had been nervous that she would react badly to going to his uncle’s house, but he could not think of another choice. He had not been to London since assuming the duchy and couldn’t think of another place to put her. He should probably have considered this before making his offer.
As an unemployed servant she could have been stuck in one of the maid’s rooms. For his mistress-to-be that did not seem suitable. And he didn’t mean to be thinking of sticking her anywhere, although phrased that way he could think of— Why did his brains seem to depart when he was near her?
He glanced across at her. Her lips were tight and she lacked her usual vitality. The gray gown was overshadowing her beauty.
He wished Divers were here with them—the first time he’d ever had that thought. He’d asked his valet about the correct way of setting up a mistress, but none of the man’s advice seemed quite right. Divers had assured him that Isabella would not mind staying at his uncle’s house for a few nights—although his tone had also implied it was not her place to question. Divers clearly did not know Isabella.
Mark would have to explain the situation to the man more carefully and seek further advice. He did want to do this right.
Damnation. He was not sure why everything had grown so tense anyway. He had been trying to do her a favor by leaving her alone last night at the inn and she’d taken even that badly. What had happened to the natural ease that had flowed between them? It had been so much easier when she had not known he was the duke. Now everything seemed endlessly complicated, endlessly examined.
Bother. He should be thinking of his coming meeting with the king, and instead his thoughts kept turning to Isabella, wishing she were in his arms.
Something was going to have to change.
It was not an awful house. It wasn’t even particularly bad. The furnishings might have been half a century out of date, and despite having a staff, it looked as if no one had lived here for ages. Isabella didn’t know how old the last duke had been when he died. Perhaps he had been too old to keep a mistress. Were men ever too old for a mistress? Isabella added that to the list of things she didn’t know.
The hall was cold. Outside it was warm enough to raise a sweat, but in the dark of the hall there was a distinct chill.
She turned in a slow circle and looked around. Strattington had deposited her in the hall, spoken to the elderly porter, and left. Her small bag had been taken upstairs and she’d been directed to a parlor to await her room being made ready.
Only nobody had come for her.
Should she go searching on her own? Her temples were aching again and she desperately wanted the chance to lie down. Somewhere, back deep in her mind, was the hope that she would sleep and when she awoke this would all be a dream.
“Come this way, miss.” The dour-faced housekeeper had finally remembered her. “I’ll show you to your room. I am sure you’ll find it delightful, quite a step up for a maid. It was decorated only a few years ago.”
Divers must have talked to the woman. Nobody else would have said she was a maid. Why did the man seem to dislike her so much?
“I am sure it will be lovely,” she said to the housekeeper.
“I reckon you’ll be wanting a proper meal and a bath.”
“Please.”
“It may take a while. We weren’t expecting you and it’s been years since anybody has stayed in the house.”
Had Mark’s uncle not used the house? “I thought you said it was redecorated recently?”
“I said that we hadn’t had anyone staying here—not that the house had not been used. I would think someone in your position would realize the difference. And don’t ask questions. Gentlemen like their affairs kept quiet.”
Someone in her position. Isabella was too caught by the phrase to worry about the rest of the statement. She lost even that thought when the housekeeper swung open the door to her new bedroom. Isabella could only gape at the chamber beyond.
He hadn’t planned on visiting her tonight. In fact, he’d planned on staying away from her until he had new accommodations set. A home of her own would go a long way toward getting him back in her good graces.
He allowed himself a single sigh as he walked up the steps to his uncle’s house—well, his house actually. An evening spent with the king was enough to tire anyone. There had been several messages waiting when he arrived at his home in Mayfair. The king had made it very clear that his newest duke had better come calling the moment he arrived. Or at least as soon as his valet dressed him in a coat without a wrinkle—that also allowed no movement—and a neck cloth tied in so many layers that he’d felt like a lady’s petticoat. And that wasn’t even mentioning the satin knee breeches. Mark hadn’t known that they were required anywhere besides Almack’s. Divers saw it differently.
The new King George was not actually a bad man, or even a tedious one. He was, however, a demanding one. Mark never wanted to hear so many details about an event again. He simply did not care what types of herbs were going to be sprinkled on the ground before the king as he walked along. The coronation was important, the number of yards of train the king would wear and the number of attendants necessary to carry it were not.
Only a brief conversation with the Duke of Brisbane had kept the evening bearable. Now there was a man who understood with all his being what it was to be a duke.
Mark scowled. He was becoming a grouchy old man and he still had barely reached thirty.
Which was why he was here, standing on the stairs of a house he owned, wondering if he’d be welcome.
He needed her, not the cold woman of the last days, but the warm Isabella who reminded him of who he was, the woman who saw him as a man and not a duke.
Or at least she had. Now that she knew who he was could they go back to the way it had been?
What was he doing here?
Well, Isabella imagined that she knew what he intended, but now? It was well after midnight and she had finally fallen asleep. He had no right to arrive now. Hurriedly she slipped out of bed and pulled on her robe.
Glancing in the mirror, she grimaced. Her hair was a curling mess about her head, and her face—well, yellow had never been he
r color and her bruised cheek looked like a lemon. How could she even think he’d want to have sex with her when she looked like lemon? A curly-headed lemon.
Not that she wanted to have sex with him. No, she did not.
She was not done being angry yet. It sounded petty even in her mind, but she still felt a cold fury when she thought of how she’d ended up here. She might have some blame in the matter, but she’d wanted Mark in her bed—not Strattington, not the duke.
Was it possible to have one without the other?
The question gave her pause, stilling her anger. Could she find Mark again? If she approached him in the right manner, was Mark still there? Could she have him and not the duke?
That was the question in her mind as she tiptoed down the stairs in her bare feet. The servants had put him in the blue parlor. At a guess she thought that was the front one. There wasn’t much blue in the room, but it looked like the carpet might once have been that shade.
At least he hadn’t just appeared in her bedroom, in her bed. A shiver took her at the thought and she was not quite clear on its cause.
A fire had been lit. It was true luxury on this temperate summer night, serving to dry the air and add a warm glow to the dark room.
Strattington sat in the high wing chair before it—only he didn’t look like Strattington. He looked like Mark. Perhaps there was hope. The dark waves of his hair lay mussed and disarrayed. His cravat hung untied about his neck. She was only surprised he had not removed his coat.
Her eyes must have portrayed her question.
Mark shrugged. “I can’t get out of it without help. It’s too tight. Silly, isn’t it?”
Should she offer to help? It seemed the natural thing for a mistress to do, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to touch him—not yet.
Or maybe the problem was that she was sure that she did? It was too easy to imagine running her hands over his strong shoulders. “It’s been years since I wore anything I couldn’t manage myself. I can even do my laces if needed.” She blushed as she said the last.
He really did seem like Mark again. She would never have made such a comment to anyone else.
“I’ve gone the other way. Until I inherited I’ve never had a garment I couldn’t manage. Come sit. I need some company.”
“Only company?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Yes, only company. Even I know it’s not fitting to show up in the small hours of the morning expecting more than that.”
The fire did look inviting. Watching him warily, she came and sat across from him. “I thought that was the purpose of a mistress, that you didn’t need to worry if things were fitting or not.”
“That might be the theory, but I have been informed it is not at all the practice.”
“Informed?”
“Well, as I’ve never actually had a mistress before, I only know what I am told.”
“And who exactly is doing the telling?”
It was his turn to act wary. “A man hears.”
She smiled slightly at his discomfort. He was not so imposing now. “I would imagine he does.”
He sighed loudly and let his head fall back. “And I must confess to being so sick of hearing. I spent the evening with the king and his friends. The chatter that surrounds them would send a magpie screaming.”
“And so you came here looking for company? Would you not have been better with quiet at home?”
The ceiling seemed to have an endless fascination for him as he continued to stare at it. “You would have thought so. After the night I’ve had, going home to my solitary bed in my solitary house should have had immense appeal. But somehow I find myself here.”
“Oh.” Her heart added an extra beat.
He lowered his face until he looked straight at her. “Do you want me to go? I should have realized I would be pulling you from your bed.”
“No. It is fine. Please stay. Should I ring for something? Port? Brandy?”
“Would you think it unmanly if I asked for hot tea and cold water?”
“Not at all, although I would confess I might find it a bit strange.”
He had been right to come. He lifted the tea to his lips and took a gentle sip. The water had been gulped down as soon as it arrived. A good drink of water after a night of overindulgence often saved him from a pounding head in the morning. The tea, now, that was just soothing.
As was Isabella. He couldn’t remember a more pleasant time than this last half hour spent gazing at the flames and chatting whenever the need took them. The time had been far different from the awkward days they’d spent in the carriage.
He shrugged, trying to release the tension in his shoulders. Bloody jacket.
“Would you like me to help you with that?”
The soft question took him by surprise. When he’d first arrived he’d been ready for her to offer, had even hinted that she should. Now, as sleepy familiarity surrounded them, it seemed more dangerous. “Yes, I would like that,” he answered, hoping his voice didn’t sound too husky.
She rose from her chair and walked toward him. The belt on her robe had loosened and he could see a hint of skin through the thin linen night rail. It was old and worn. Part of him longed to dress her in something new and fine, but a bigger part was very happy with the way the threadbare fabric outlined her skin.
And then her hands were at his shoulders easing his coat down. The stiff fabric slid easily under her fingers, and he twisted an arm back until he was free. “Ah, that feels good.”
“Getting you out was easy. I am not sure getting you back in will be possible.”
“Divers manages with only the barest of complaints.”
“I am not Divers.”
No, she certainly was not. Her robe gaped further with her movements, and he could see one rosy nipple peeking through the fabric. His fingers curled in the effort not to touch. He swallowed, hard.
“You are looking tense again,” Isabella murmured as she reached over and stroked his cheek. She had no problem with touching.
He closed his palm about her hand. “That feels so good.”
Their gazes met and held.
“I’ve missed you.” She spoke so quietly he was not sure he heard correctly.
Chapter 15
Touching him was heaven. She leaned nearer as he remained in his chair. She should be mad and standoffish—or at least cold. He had forced her into a situation that she had no wish to be in. But, as she ran her fingers over his cheek, felt the scruffy stubble of his beard, it was hard to remember that.
Instead she remembered that this was her own doing as well as his and that his offer was better than any she had expected to receive.
And she remembered that this was Mark.
For the past days she had been so busy thinking of him as Strattington that she had forgotten just how drawn she was to him, to the man. The duke she could do without, but the man, that was something else.
She pulled in a deep breath and considered.
It was not awkward between them at this moment. That had been her greatest fear. How was she to do this thing when she felt so distant from him?
But here, now, this was not distant. This was—possible. Could she take the lead and bring them to the next step?
If she was going to do this, she should set the terms, the pace.
Leaning forward, she let her hair brush across Mark’s face, watched the flickers of his eyes as each strand brushed him. His eyes darkened with desire. His wants were clear.
Her glance dropped to his lips, back to his eyes.
And she kissed him, softly, gently—but with unmistakable intent.
Her breasts brushed against his shirt and she made no effort to pull back. If she waited the mood might change—it had to be now, now while he was Mark.
He tilted his face toward her, capturing her lips more fully, bringing her mouth into deeper contact. His tongue licked her lips and then slipped inward. He shifted, opening his legs and bringing her between the
m. His strong thighs surrounded her, making her feel both captured and powerful. She tilted her hips forward, bent her knees, brushed against him, felt his reaction deep in her core. He might have the muscles, but she had equal control.
Catching his head between her hands, she plundered his mouth and was plundered in return. His eyes closed slowly. It should have taken away from the intimacy of the moment, but the vulnerability of his expression caught at her. This was Mark. He was not hiding anything from her. Somehow in closing his eyes he had exposed himself further.
Something in her heart softened. This was Mark—he had said he would care for her—and he would.
She smiled against his lips. His eyes slipped open. “You look happy,” he said against her mouth.
“Yes, I think I am.”
“You have not been happy these past days.”
“No, but now I am.”
“And I must say that I am too.” He tilted slightly, bringing her to sit on his lap.
He pulled his head back and looked at her for a moment. “I was not expecting this tonight. I had planned to wait—at least until I had bought a house for you.”
Her spine stiffened and then she forced it to relax. This was all he could offer and she had decided to accept it. “That is not necessary. This is not about money and payment. No, shhh—let me explain.” She held a hand up to his lips. “This is about us—about Isabella and Mark. I was willing before you became the duke and I am willing now.”
“I was always the duke.”
“But I did not know that.” She placed a sweet kiss upon his mouth. “Believe me, it was never my ambition to be a well-kept woman.”
He kissed her back once, the slight noise of the pucker slipping between them. “Then what was your ambition?”
Could she tell him? Yes—or at least part—the part that had to do with him. “You will laugh.”
“I promise not to.” He crossed his fingers over his heart.
“I rather thought I’d be an estate agent’s wife. I’ve already told you that I wanted marriage. I was working hard to seduce you into an offer.” She ducked her head as she spoke.