The Mistress' House

by Leigh Michaels

  “And you think taking a lover will accomplish that?”

  “It will at least make plain that I will not allow myself to be compromised into marriage.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Now we come to the nub of it.”

  “I thought that, as the target of many such plots yourself, you would understand,” Anne said, almost plaintively. “I have already narrowly avoided several separate instances where I would have been alone with a man under questionable circumstances.”

  He ticked the possibilities off on his fingers. “Closed carriage. The darkest corner of a deserted terrace. A private room. Being out after dark…”

  “None of those episodes would have particularly disturbed me,” she said dryly, “had not each of the gentlemen involved reassured me—in their various ways—that if we were discovered, I could rely on them to preserve my reputation at any cost.”

  “Including marriage.”

  “I would say, especially marriage—even if I had no interest in marrying the gentleman in question.”

  “Yet you are alone with me,” he pointed out.

  “You, sir, have no desire to marry me. You have no interest in a permanent alliance and no need to add my fortune to your own.”

  “True enough.”

  “At any rate, once I make it clear to society that I won’t be embarrassed into marriage, I’ll be left alone to live as I choose.”

  “Taking lovers.” His voice was matter-of-fact.

  “If I wish.” Why the simple statement made her feel defensive she didn’t know.

  “Short-term alliances, purely for physical pleasure—and, of course, to make sure no one ever forgets that you’re ruined.”

  He didn’t need to make it sound so calculating, she thought. “Perhaps for friendship, also. Fun. Conversation.”

  “All the things that were missing from your marriage?” he said shrewdly.

  “I prefer not to discuss my marriage.” She took a deep breath. “But like a gentleman’s mistresses, my… friends… must understand the rules.”

  “You’d do better to start by using the proper names for things,” he advised. “How many lovers do you think you will need to prove your point?”

  “If you’re the first,” she said coolly, “not many.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “I assume you intend to take these lovers just one at a time?”

  Anne felt herself flush at the suggestion. It was no wonder he’d struck back, of course; she had aimed a low blow at his reputation, pointing out that merely having her name associated with his in such a way would be enough to destroy her with most of the London matrons.

  “I ask, you understand, because as a rake I do maintain certain standards when I take a lover,” he went on smoothly.

  Her breath froze. Surely he couldn’t be agreeing! “I… Standards? You dare to speak to me of standards when you were in that room last night with Charlotte Barnsley?”

  “A tongue like a fishing gaff,” he said softly, and rose. “You ride, of course.”

  Anne was taken aback. What did that have to do with anything? “Naturally I do.”

  “There’s a coaching inn on the road to Islington called the Red Dragon. I’ll meet you there tomorrow morning. Ask the innkeeper to show you to Mr. Wilde’s private parlor.”

  She simply looked at him. “Mr. Wilde?”

  “Shall we say eight o’clock? You did tell me, I believe, that you’re an early riser,” Hawthorne said blandly. “You should return to the shop now, before your maid finds you missing.”

  “Why? If I was discovered here with you—”

  He smiled. “It would cause an uproar, true enough. But make no mistake, Lady Keighley. If you proceed with your plan, I do not intend to be merely a convenient shill. I will be your lover in fact. You were quite right last night—I am not a gentleman.” He bowed. “Until tomorrow.”

  ***

  It was just as well that men of his class didn’t make bets on what ladies might do, Thorne thought the next morning as he turned his horse over to a groom at the Red Dragon well before eight o’clock. If he’d been offered a bet on whether Lady Keighley would turn up to keep their appointment this morning, he wouldn’t have known which side of the proposition to put his money on.

  She was a determined little thing; that was clear enough. And even when she tried to keep herself tamped down to a ladylike murmur, that unruly tongue of hers occasionally got the better of her. One minute she’d been all society polish, refusing even to say the word lover. The next she’d flared up at him about his supposed taste in women.

  It could go either way, he thought as he lounged in the private parlor he’d engaged. All in all, however, if his life depended on betting correctly, he’d have to put his money on her getting cold feet and leaving him in the lurch.

  Which would be a shame—for Lady Keighley showed promise of being the most diverting mistress he’d had in some time. That odd combination of stylish lady and fishwife intrigued him. Even odder was the contrast between the woman who calmly stated her intention to take multiple lovers and the one who kissed like a spinster governess.

  Or a virgin.

  Now there was a thought to make a man’s heart quake. But surely not… she’d been married for several years. On the other hand, it was possible. Keighley had been an old man. And there had been no heir.

  Thorne nursed a tankard of ale while he thought about it and wondered if he’d ever find out for certain. Doubtful, since it was well past eight of the clock, with not a glimpse of her.

  Just then the door opened, and the innkeeper showed a lady into the room. She wore a dark-green riding habit trimmed with big gold buttons down the front, and her dashing hat sported a dark veil that half concealed her face.

  A surge of relief swept over Thorne. Not because she’d actually kept the appointment, of course—but because today she was dressed like a woman and not like a schoolroom miss. If she’d turned up wearing something frilly and white…

  Like what? He jeered at himself. You told her to ride. Ladies don’t ride horses while wearing white muslin and lace.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  Her chin came up almost defiantly. “I could hardly ask directions. Not if it was to look to my groom as if I’d wandered here at random.”

  “And just what did you tell the unfortunate groom who will be kicking his heels in the stable while waiting for us?”

  “That I thought my horse was going lame. I’m to have tea and rest while he walks the mare and checks out the problem.”

  “Then I shall order tea.” He nodded at the innkeeper, who bowed and went away. “And I was not scolding you, merely commenting.”

  She seemed to hesitate and then walked across the room to warm herself at the fire. Thorne watched the sway of her hips with appreciation.

  “There’s no need for the tea,” she said. “I’d really rather… get this over with.”

  “I’m flattered that you’re so eager, my dear.”

  She obviously heard the irony in his voice. “Well, you did say—”

  “That I intend to be your lover. With full cooperation from you, I might add. I’m not particularly interested in a rigid sacrifice.”

  She bit her lip and turned pink.

  A faint tap on the door heralded a maidservant with a laden tray containing a pot of tea as well as the delicacies Thorne had ordered earlier. He passed the maid a coin and waited until the door had closed once more. “Strawberries?” he asked politely.

  She didn’t answer.

  “If you’re having second thoughts,” Thorne said, “I should point out that I have never taken a woman by force, and I don’t expect to change my habits in the future. All you need do is walk away, call for your groom, and return to your home and the marriage-minded men who will attend you there. We will never speak of this again, and in fact, we will meet as strangers.”

  She stood stock still for a moment, then reached up and removed her hat. “No second thoughts.”r />
  “Then come here and have a strawberry.” She came across the room to him. He held out the berry, grasping it by the hull—but when she reached for it, he shook his head. “You know what I want you to do.”

  Her eyes dilated, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she simply opened her mouth obediently and bit into the plump pink flesh. When she licked juice off her lower lip, Thorne felt the temperature in the room shoot up.

  “Come and sit next to me,” he said softly. “I think a peach next, don’t you? We’ll share this one.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t come here to eat.”

  “You came to experience the delights of the flesh. All of them.” He brushed the back of his hand down her cheek and delighted in the little shiver that ran through her. “Do you think perhaps you could take off your gloves, at least?”

  He peeled the peach while she worked the tight-fitting gloves off her hands, and he almost cut his finger because he was watching her instead of paying attention to his task. She had worn white gloves at the ball and doeskin ones at the jeweler’s shop. This was the first time he’d seen her hands, and they did not disappoint. She had long, tapering fingers with perfectly shaped nails. If her hands were as soft as they looked…

  “If you’re not hungry, then feed me,” he suggested.

  She sighed a little, but she picked up a slice of peach and jabbed it tentatively toward his mouth. Thorne caught her wrist and guided her hand, licking a drop of juice from her fingertip and letting his tongue linger over her skin. She caught her breath.

  He picked up another slice of the peach, touched it to her lower lip, and then took the other end of the slice between his teeth. Now only the space of a breath remained between them, and—unwilling to wait another instant—he closed it, feeling the trembling of her lips under his.

  This time she opened to him immediately. A fast learner, he thought. A willing pupil…

  He eased her back against the cushions. He could taste the strawberry and the peach, their flavors intensified by the heat of her mouth against his. She kissed him inexpertly, awkwardly—and desire shot through him, making him light-headed. His fingers caressed the gold button at her throat, easing it free. Then the next… until the bodice of her riding habit gaped open and her breasts strained to be free.

  He bent his head and licked, watching as the thin white fabric of her chemise turned wetly transparent over the rosy nipple. She arched against him as he suckled her, and he had to grab for self-control to keep from spilling her straight onto the carpet where he could stretch her out under him and bury himself deep within her.

  He backed off a bit, cupping her breasts with his hands as he kissed her again, long and slowly and so deeply that he almost forgot to breathe. Then he found the edge of her skirt and slipped one hand under the hem to touch the silken skin just above the top of her stocking. She gasped and quivered, and he hushed her with his mouth against hers, letting his fingertips simply rest against her thigh until she grew accustomed. Then, when she had gentled to his touch, he moved on, teasing her legs apart until he could rest his palm over the moist heat at her core and touch the hidden silky folds with a gentle finger.

  She bucked against him, and he used her own movement to slip a fingertip inside her. She was hot and slick, and his mouth went dry with need. Then she whimpered a little and resisted, and he regained his senses. How could he have forgotten that—virgin or not—she was definitely inexperienced?

  “It’s all right,” he said against her lips. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.” Not this time, anyway, he told himself firmly. If she truly was a virgin… but he’d deal with that when the moment came.

  She took a long breath, and he felt her force herself to relax. One day soon, you’ll give me this without resistance, he thought. Slowly he began to stroke her, gently, patiently.

  He felt her breath catch, and then all her muscles tightened and he knew she was at the brink. She gasped with fear; he caught the sound on his lips and increased the motion of his finger, sending her over the edge.

  And as she clutched at him, he promised himself that next time she would give him that all-encompassing response with him inside her. Next time.

  The sooner, the better.

  ***

  If her body had actually broken into pieces, Anne couldn’t have been more shaken. Her muscles spasmed, sending rivulets of sensation through her. When the shudders finally died down, he stroked once more with his finger, and she jerked as heat flared once more deep inside her. “So responsive,” he whispered, and slowly—as though reluctantly—he withdrew his hand.

  It was obvious what would happen next. She should be grateful that he had been so patient, that he had given her pleasure first to make things easier. She forced herself to focus. “You will want…” she began, but her voice didn’t work right.

  “I want to see that look on your face—to feel that sweet eagerness—as I bury myself within you,” he said.

  Sweet eagerness? That might be promising too much. But men had a way of thinking that whatever they wanted was not only the woman’s duty but her pleasure. Anne braced herself. Any moment now, he would pull her skirt higher, spread her legs, invade her body…

  “That is exactly what I want,” he murmured. “And exactly what I will have. But not today.”

  She looked at him, feeling bleary. Could he possibly have said…

  “I prefer my creature comforts, you see. A bed. A locked door.”

  The door hadn’t even been locked? How had that not occurred to her before? Anne was horrified. Anyone could have walked in…

  And that was what you wanted, Anne Keighley, she reminded herself. To be discovered in his arms in a private room, actually in the act of making love… the word would have been all over London by nightfall, and her aim would have been accomplished.

  But that hadn’t happened, and so they weren’t finished. Not until he was satisfied—and he had told her exactly what he intended to have.

  “Besides, anticipation is an even better aphrodisiac than oysters,” he went on. “Your groom—and your horse—must be getting restive by now. I’ll send you word of our next meeting. In the meantime…”

  His kiss was long and slow, like a drug stealing through her, robbing her of the ability to move. His hands skimmed over her body, caressing her skin as though the heavy wool of her riding habit was the sheerest silk. “Every whisper of the senses that you feel will be like me touching you again,” he murmured, “until the next time we meet.”

  ***

  No question about it, Thorne told himself. I am an idiot.

  With a whole inn full of bedrooms just up a flight of stairs, with a woman in his arms who at the merest word would have welcomed him, with his body aching and screaming to possess her… he had sent her home instead.

  But not for long. Not only would he have her—and soon—but the having would be far sweeter because of letting her have a day or two of anticipation. Why settle for a single morning’s tumble in the Red Dragon’s best bedchamber? If he played his hand right, Lady Keighley would be his for precisely as long as he chose.

  So much for her plan to take multiple lovers. He would keep her so busy she wouldn’t have time to look for his replacement and so sated that she wouldn’t be able to think at all.

  So he’d sent her home before the groom got curious and before her brother had reason to ask where she’d gone on such a long ride. And then he began planning their next assignation.

  ***

  “The mare’s fine now, my lady,” the groom said. “I don’t know what could have been wrong, that you thought she was going lame.”

  “Better to be safe.” Anne took the reins. “She’s my favorite—it would be such a shame if she was injured.” She gestured, and the groom lifted her into the sidesaddle. He climbed onto his horse as Anne settled her skirts. “No more exploring, I’m afraid—we must go straight home.”

  The groom looked at her as if she’d lost her wits. Perhaps she had,
Anne thought. Being in a hurry now didn’t make much sense after she had come so far and dawdled for an hour over her supposed tea… which she’d never even sipped.

  Every whisper of the senses you feel will be like me touching you again, Hawthorne had said. He was right. The breeze on her face, even the brush of the fragile veil against her cheek as she rode across London, sent ripples of sensation through her.

  She dismounted at the front door of her brother’s town house and let the groom take her horse round to the mews. The butler let her in, bowing slightly as he opened the door. “Lady Braxton has been asking for you,” he said loftily.

  “Thank you, Digby. Where is she?”

  From the morning room, Anne heard her sister-in-law’s voice. “Anne? Is that you? Come here, dear.”

  Anne grimaced but went to the door. Madeleine was reclining on a chaise, looking quite fetching in a morning gown of warm yellow. It reminded Anne of peaches.

  “My apologies, Maddy. I’d better not get too close; I must smell of horse.” And quite possibly other things, she thought. Peaches and strawberries… and Lord Hawthorne and lust…

  “You must hurry and change. We could have morning callers at any moment.”

  Freddy and the other men her brother was encouraging, no doubt. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” Anne ran up the stairs.

  She had ordered a bath before she left the house that morning, and the tub stood ready in her bedroom. As Anne entered, the upstairs maid was pouring in the last brass can of steaming water. “I’m sorry for being delayed, Polly. How did you manage to have the water just right?”

  “One of the footmen saw you coming around the corner, my lady, and slipped up to tell me,” Polly said.

  That was another potential hazard to keep in mind, Anne thought—footmen who saw everything that happened on the street… Really, this carrying on an intrigue was most complex.

  Polly was watching her warily. “He ought not to have talked to me, I expect, my lady. If Mr. Digby finds out…”

  “I’m not going to tell, Polly. Only—which footman is it? And is he courting you or just currying favor? Or has he tried to take liberties with you?”