The Demon's Mistress

by Jo Beverley

  He came over to her, pins in his extended, beautiful, scarred hand. “I thought that too. That I couldn’t love. I thought I was dead except for an inconveniently beating heart. Then you burst into my room that day and brought me back to life.”

  She took the pins trying not to show how the mere brush of her fingers against his warm palm shuddered her. “I don’t regret it, but I will if you persist with this.”

  Red flushed his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “Are you denying what burns between us? Can you say it means nothing, that it’s on my side only?”

  He’d put the blade in her hand, and all she had to do was wield it—deny her love, agree that it meant nothing. . . .

  She tried, but the sacrilegious lie stuck in her throat. Her lips moved, but no sound came out, and heaven only knows what he read in her face.

  She turned sharply to the mirror, stabbing pins into her hair, striving for courage to cut him free.

  She heard the door close and turned to find that he’d gone.

  Van went downstairs in that state of shivering lightheadedness that had always swept over him after battle, when he’d realized that yet again he was miraculously alive and intact. But this battle had only just begun.

  She hadn’t said that the fire burned on his side only.

  Was it willful folly to believe she’d stuck on a lie rather than a hurtful truth? All he knew was that this was Demon Vandeimen’s most crucial battle and he’d fight, fight to the end.

  He stood in the silent, slightly musty hall stirring again the dreams that had built here for him this afternoon.

  He’d begun to dream of a freshly-painted hall, the plaster cornice repaired in that corner, the parquet floor perfumed and gleaming with wax. Now his mind put flowers in the vase on the table, and potpourri in the china jar. Then laughter trickled from upstairs and children ran down and out, out into the grounds to explore as the triumvirate had, to be Robin Hood in the woods and pirates on the river—

  The vision shattered and he sucked in a deep breath.

  Yes, his idyll had contained children and it would hurt to let that part of the picture go, but children weren’t as important as Maria. Anyway, they could bring children into their lives as she had Natalie. Heaven knows, there was no shortage of orphans in the world.

  Natalie. Oncle Charles and Tante Louise had gossiped maliciously about Natalie, so that had been no surprise. He hadn’t made that other connection.

  He burned with the need to act, to charge wildly into battle, but where was the enemy here?

  He went over to the china potpourri pot his mother had loved and lifted the lid to find that it still contained dusky petals, doubtless put there by her own hands. Having been covered for so long, a faint perfume stirred like a ghost of summers past.

  Tears stabbed, and he looked up, swallowing, fighting, until the danger passed. There could be summers here again, and children even if they were not of his blood. There could also be Maria.

  There had to be.

  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d led a forlorn hope.

  He heard a sound and turned to see her coming down the stairs, gloved and hatted, composed except for something bruised in her eyes. He would cut off his arm rather than cause her pain, but he could not let her run away without a fight.

  He met her at the bottom of the stairs, blocking her way.

  He saw her flinch, but she met his eyes. “We should return to London. We can make it before dark.”

  “Of course, but let me say something first. We can have children.” He overrode her protest. “We can give a home to orphans as you have to Natalie.”

  “You have bastards you need to house, Lord Vandeimen?”

  It was harsh as a swung saber, but attack had never daunted him. “Not that I know of. Fight with me, Maria, instead of against me.”

  She met his eyes, lily-pale, steel-cold. “We are not on the same side in this.”

  “Maria—”

  “No!” She sidestepped to walk around him and he grabbed her arm.

  She whirled, furious—and afraid.

  Instinctively his fingers loosened, but then he tightened them again. “All I want to make clear is that if you are barren it is not an insurmountable obstacle.”

  “Your title would die.”

  “So, it would die. It’s an upstart Dutch transplant only five generations old. It’s not worthy of human sacrifice.”

  Her lips tightened and she suddenly looked older, older than her years. All he wanted was to cherish her and he was bruising her in mind and spirit.

  She opened one gloved hand and he saw his ring in it. “I’m sorry, Lord Vandeimen,” she said, looking at some vague point behind him, “I find we would not suit.”

  “Dammit, Maria”—he sucked in a breath—“We have a contract and it has nearly two weeks to run.”

  Her eyes clashed with his. “I’m ending it now. As soon as we return to town I’ll have your nine thousand pounds transferred to Perry’s.”

  “A contract has two parties. I say it will hold until the end.”

  “Hold to it if you want. I will not wear your ring, and you will not live in my house. I will not see you again, Lord Vandeimen. In fact, if you have any honor at all you will stay here and get on with restoring your home!”

  It hurt, like blows, like blades raining down on him, but he kept hold of her arm and spoke steadily. “And leave you to return unescorted? I think not. But you’re right, we should leave.”

  He let her go then, and stalked out of the house before he gave into temptation to shake her, kiss her, or ravish her.

  He suspected she’d succumb to angry ravishment, and that would be the cruelest blow of all.

  Chapter Nine

  Maria sank down onto the lowest steps, shaking with fury and pain. It was like trying to hack off one of her own limbs, and he was making it harder and harder. Why wouldn’t he simply take the money and go?

  The last thing she wanted to do was to follow him, to travel with him back to the village and then on the four-hour journey to London, but what choice did she have? Like so many other wounds, it could be endured and survived. She pulled herself to her feet and gathered strength to walk out to the stables.

  When she arrived there the gig was ready and he was sitting with the reins in his hands. She climbed up beside him in silence and they set off.

  “Maria—”

  “Van, don’t. Please.” She gripped her hands together and realized that she still had his ring clutched in one. It would be a grand gesture to toss it away, but she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t do that any more than she’d been able to cut him free cleanly with cruel words.

  He steered around a deep dip in the drive then picked up speed again. “I amputated one of my men’s arms once,” he said, eyes ahead. “It was mostly off anyway, but he was bleeding to death and we were stuck in the remains of a village in the sierra. I tied it, hacked off the remains, and cauterized it with my saber heated in the cooking fire.” He turned to look at her. “He begged, too, but he’s alive today and home on his family’s farm in Lincolnshire. He married a childhood sweetheart and has a baby now.”

  She didn’t know what to say other than to beg again, and she believed what he was saying. He wouldn’t stop because she begged, because he believed that what he was doing was right.

  They turned out of the generously open gates onto the country road. “Are you sure about Maurice?” he asked quietly. “About Natalie?”

  She could weep for clung-to hopes, but answered flatly. “Yes. He had four other bastards that I know of, currently aged two to ten. I can list their names if you want. He never concealed them from me, and he left provision for them in his will.”

  “List their names.”

  “What?” She stared at him.


  He glanced at her, seeming almost calm, almost as if none of this mattered at all. “You said you could list their names. I asked you to.”

  Feeling as if they’d slipped into a land where nothing made sense, she said, “Tommy Grimes, Mary Ann Notts, Alice Jones, and Benjamin Mumford.”

  He nodded, but said nothing. The children should have been a winning blow, and yet Maria felt uneasily as if she had put a sharp weapon into his hands. She needed a shield. She would marry Lord Warren. He wouldn’t expect a passionate heart, and marriage would distract her. After all, she’d have the care and guidance of his sons, not much younger than Van.

  But she’d never again burn in the fire of her demon’s passion.

  Human sacrifice.

  Oh yes, he had the right of it there, and was it right to sacrifice Lord Warren in her cause?

  When they arrived back at the inn, she hurried up to the privacy of her room, leaving him to arrange for the coach to be ready. As she waited her mind circled that incident he had mentioned, the amputation.

  How old had he been then? He’d said sierra, so in Spain. At least two years ago, perhaps longer, and he was only twenty-five now. She could imagine the inner terror, the sweating hands, the threatening vomit. She was also sure of the courage and willpower that had kept his hands steady, had done what had to be done as quickly and deftly as possible.

  Love poured through her again, carried on respect and admiration. She wanted him in so many, many ways. But she loved him enough to cut him free and cauterize the wound despite his protests. Then perhaps one day she would be able to speak calmly of his happy life along with a sweetheart and a baby.

  Van made the arrangements, and considered four hours in the coach with Maria. He couldn’t. He couldn’t trust himself not to argue, or worse, try to persuade by force or seduction. The demon was writhing inside him, calling for the fight to the death, for all or nothing.

  He asked the innkeeper about a horse to hire and found that a Mr. Slade kept three fine horses at the inn and rarely rode them. Slade, apparently, was a wealthy iron founder who’d retired to the village and built the overlarge, stuccoed house that stood out in the village like a tombstone in a garden. Van was surprised Squire Hawkinville had permitted it.

  Slade was a convenience for him, however. At the price of a few moments being oozed over by Slade he had the use of a bay gelding for the journey to London. It would cost more later. The iron founder was clearly delighted to put a local lord under an obligation. It was worth the price. He’d pay any price for Maria’s comfort—except to let her go.

  By the time they arrived back, the light was going and a misty drizzle completed a miserable day. Maria had spent the journey planning ways to force Van to accept that their arrangement was at an end, but she’d been constantly distracted by the sight of him on horseback.

  He rode superbly of course, one with the fine horse, and completely in control. He mostly rode alongside, but occasionally he raced ahead then circled back exhilarated, smiling. Until his eyes met hers and settled again to cool purpose.

  He was going to fight, and she shivered at the thought.

  She was drowning in guilt, too. He was a cavalry officer, and she’d never thought to offer him a horse. She put that aside as a minor sin past redemption, and focused on amputation.

  As soon as she was out of the coach and he was off the horse, she said, “Your indentured servitude is at an end as of now, my lord.”

  He paled so the scar stood out starkly on his cheek, but said, “Not here, Maria,” and turned to tip the postboys and to arrange for one to ride his horse to the livery stables.

  She was left burning with embarrassment. She’d spilled her words in the open street. She hurried into her house feeling not like a resolute matron, but like a guilty child. She almost fled up to her room, but he’d follow her there. She knew he would. She couldn’t deal with this in such an intimate setting.

  Surely she had the right to throw him from her house!

  Harriette came down the stairs. “Maria? What are you doing home? Is something the matter?”

  “I’ve decided my arrangement with Lord Vandeimen is at an end. He will be leaving.”

  “Will I?” he said behind her, and she turned. Her footman was hovering, looking uncertain. If necessary, John would throw him out. If he could, that is. A brawl in the entrance hall of her house? How had matters come to this?

  “Maria.” It was Harriette, and she had the door to the reception room open. “We need to talk.”

  Maria wanted to refuse, but if she did, Harriette would speak her mind in front of the servants. She stalked into the room and shut the door. “Don’t interfere, Harriette.”

  “You cannot be so impossibly inhospitable.”

  “There’s no longer any need for him to be here.”

  “He’s healed?”

  Maria was struck by uncertainty. It was only last night that he’d taken to deep drinking. So much had happened since that it seemed an age ago, but it had only been last night.

  “He’s ready to begin restoring his home,” she said. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  Harriette eyed her. “I think he’s making you uncomfortable, and that’s why you’re trying to cast him out. What’s he done?”

  Maria circled the room then admitted it. “He proposed to me.”

  “Ah. And you said?”

  “No, of course. It will not do.”

  “Why not?”

  “Put aside age and the fact that I bribed him into this, I’m barren.”

  Harriette’s face sagged. “Oh my dear, I had forgotten. It would have been wonderful.”

  “No it wouldn’t. I’m too old for him. He’s too . . . demanding. Controlling.”

  “Oh no. You’re made for each other. I’ve thought it almost from the first. You laugh with him, and blush with him. He makes you young again. He’s steady with you, at ease with you. You anchor him. Be that as it may,” she added briskly, “you are not throwing him out of here so suddenly, especially if you’ve just hurt him—”

  “I haven’t hurt him.”

  “Any rejected proposal is hurtful. He’s staying for the remaining days.”

  “Whose house is this?”

  “Yours, but you’ll do as you’re told. You don’t want to have to wonder whether he’s digging out his pistol again, do you?”

  “He wouldn’t . . .” Maria glared at her aunt. “You’re a conniving old woman.”

  “I’m not so old as that. In fact,” she said with a naughty grin, “if you don’t want him, perhaps I’ll set my cap at him. I don’t mind a bit of control in the right places.”

  She walked out of the room leaving Maria gaping. She sank into a chair and leaned her head against the back.

  Twelve days. Only twelve days. That could be endured.

  And twelve nights, every one of them temptation.

  Maria retreated to her room that first night, but she could hardly hide forever. She emerged after breakfast the next day braced for persuasion, even seduction.

  He had gone out.

  Feeling deflated instead of relieved she set out to have a normal day, the sort of day she’d enjoyed before meeting Demon Vandeimen, the sort of day that would fill the rest of her life.

  His absence crept with her like a gray ghost.

  When she visited Crown and Mitchell to consider one of the new kitchen stoves, she turned to him for an opinion. When she found that a book she’d been waiting for was available, she anticipated sharing it with him. When she flipped through her pile of invitations, she thought of which would most please him.

  She didn’t want to attend social events. People would notice the absent ring. After a moment she pulled it out of her pocket and slid it on her finger again. It was still small and p
ale, but precious. She was entitled to keep it, and she would.

  She would never wear it again, but she slid it off and put it back in her pocket. A guilty weakness, but it would be something to remember him by through the rest of her life.

  Van went to Beadle’s Hotel, and was taken up to Hawk’s rooms.

  Hawk closed the door on the nosy maid. “Trouble?”

  Trust Hawk to see that instantly. This was his private parlor, comfortably if plainly decorated. Van had the irrelevant thought that it would have been luxury during their campaigning years. And that, despite danger and death, life had been simpler then.

  He’d come here to get Hawk’s help, but putting the situation into words felt like sealing it in reality. “Maria’s decided she doesn’t want to marry me.”

  “Ah. I’ll be honest and say that I’m not sorry.”

  “Why?” Van could have said other, more bitter words, could have thrown a blow even, but restrained himself. “You met her once, and spoke a few words. What the devil reason do you have to try to come between us?”

  So much for restraint.

  Hawk stayed calm, but Van saw him shift slightly, balancing to be ready for attack. He couldn’t believe this. Was everything in his life going to fall apart?

  “I haven’t tried to come between you,” Hawk said calmly. “Though I could. I wasn’t going to speak of this, but perhaps it will help you accept your lucky escape. I said that her husband engaged in shady dealings. I had other suspicions, which I confirmed by making some inquiries yesterday.”

  “You’ve been making inquiries about Maria?” Van could feel the words in his mouth like ice, like fire. “How dare you?”

  “Of course I dare. I couldn’t let you marry a woman like that without—”

  “A woman like that?”

  Hawk stepped back, raising a hand, his eyes fixed on Van as on a predatory animal. “Hear me out before you hit me.”

  Van sucked in a deep breath. “Speak.”

  “Celestin had his fingers in many rotten pies, including highly speculative investments. He was leading partner in the investment that ruined your father. He got out intact—he generally did—leaving your father to bear the loss. He as good as put the pistol to your father’s head, Van. I don’t know what game his widow is playing, but—”