The Mistress' House

by Leigh Michaels

  “I hardly think you’re Mrs. Wilde,” she said calmly.

  “I’ll be happy to entertain you in her stead.” Hawthorne’s lips lingered on her hand.

  “Is there really a Mrs. Wilde?”

  “Such a curious lady you are. Ask her servants, and they will assure you they serve her.”

  “I’m not asking the servants. I’m asking you.”

  “Then I am forced to admit that Mrs. Wilde is a figment of my imagination—unless you choose to step into the role.”

  “It appears I’ve already done so. I’m here—and the butler sent my carriage away.”

  “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Mrs. Wilde has a very nice one that you may use at any time.”

  He had actually set up not only a house but a stable for his flirts? How very convenient, Anne thought. No wonder he’d said at the Red Dragon that he preferred his creature comforts… he had so many of them! She must be nothing more than one in a long series of women he had brought here…

  Which she had known all along; that was, after all, the reason she had approached him in the first place. Still, the thought was oddly depressing. She tried to stifle it as she took off her hat and stripped away her gloves. “Shall we get down to it?”

  “Certainly. You seem to be in a hurry.”

  “I see no need to play games.” She nodded toward a connecting door. “I assume that’s the bedroom? I’ll just go get ready, then.”

  He waved a hand in a sort of dismissal. As she crossed the room, he moved toward a tray she hadn’t seen before, nestled on a stand near a comfortable settee, and pulled the stopper from a crystal decanter.

  Anne paused. “Is that brandy?”

  “Would you care to join me?” He splashed the rich liquid into a glass.

  “No. I…” It doesn’t matter, she told herself.

  “What is it, my dear?”

  “It’s just… I don’t care for the smell of brandy. Or… the taste.” Her voice was very small; she could barely hear herself.

  His eyes narrowed.

  What a stupid, stupid thing to say. Gentlemen and brandy were a natural combination—and even more so when a woman tried to get between them. He’d probably have an extra glass just because of what she’d said…

  She fled through the door and closed it behind her, leaning against it as she fought back tears. This was weakness, and she would not be weak! But her fingers shook too much to unfasten her dress.

  She tried to inventory the room to distract herself from the image in her mind of him drinking deeply before he came to her. But all she could see was the enormous bed, under a green-velvet canopy trimmed in gold, with white silk side curtains held back with gold tassels, the coverlet turned down, and the pillows plumped.

  She wondered how many women he had brought to this room. The deep green and gold would be perfect colors for Charlotte Barnsley, with her red hair… though the white silk hangings would be less friendly to her complexion…

  It’s not my business who else he has brought here, she reminded herself. That wasn’t part of our arrangement.

  The door opened and Hawthorne came in. He looked grim, and Anne closed her eyes and berated herself once more. Why had she been so stupid? Why hadn’t she just stayed quiet?

  “That’s why you froze up when I kissed you at Lucinda’s ball that night. I’d been drinking brandy.”

  She darted a glance at him and looked quickly away. “I’m sorry. I should not have said…”

  “Keighley drowned himself in brandy and came to your bed sotted with it. That’s where you learned to dislike the taste.”

  Since it wasn’t a question, she didn’t bother to answer.

  He swore under his breath. “It’s a good thing for him that he’s dead, or I’d be sorely tempted to kill him. My dear…” He cupped her chin in his hand, raised her face to his, and kissed her, slowly and far more gently than she had expected.

  She was trembling when he raised his head. “You didn’t drink it after all. You did that for me?”

  “A man does not need brandy when he can drink his fill of you,” he whispered, and she was lost.

  He undressed her with more care than any lady’s maid who had ever attended her, caressing each square inch of skin as he uncovered it. He kissed the bend of her elbow, stroked the nape of her neck, and nuzzled the edge of her shoulder blade. He released her hair from its knot and used the long black strands of silk to tease and caress. By the time he’d disposed of the last of her clothing, she was writhing in his arms, trying in vain to drive him as far beyond reason as he’d sent her, and when he scooped her up in his arms and laid her on the bed, she tried to pull him down to her.

  “Don’t you want me to take my clothes off, too?” he murmured, and freed himself.

  She lay against the pillows and watched him take off his shirt, admiring the breadth of his shoulders, the dusting of dark hair across his chest, the strength apparent in his arms. Then he shed his trousers, and her breath caught. The size of him…

  She looked away, but he seemed to read her thoughts. “He hurt you, didn’t he?” he said. “I won’t. I promise.”

  “I know you don’t mean to.” She didn’t understand why she was so certain of that, but she knew it nonetheless—any pain he caused would not be intentional. Still… how could he help it?

  For a long moment, he simply looked at her, as if feasting on the sight. Then the mattress shifted as he stretched out beside her, leaning over her and propped on one elbow. She moved a little, turning onto her back and spreading her knees, and he gave her a predatory smile.

  “Oh, no, my dear. You might be in a hurry, but I’m not. I’ve waited too long to rush through our pleasure now.”

  “It’s only been two days,” she protested—and wondered herself how they could possibly have traveled so far in so little time.

  “It feels as if I’ve wanted you forever.” His fingertips skimmed along her body, from knee to throat. His touch was light, but Anne felt as if she’d been branded, claimed in some primitive ritual. Then he kissed her breast, and she gave up thinking altogether.

  He caressed her slowly and thoroughly, moving gradually down her body until she was whimpering. Each feather-light touch of his fingertips sent shivers over her, and each caress made her skin ache for the next. His tongue teased against her nipple and then released her—and the warmth of his mouth, followed by the touch of the cool air, sent a dart of awareness straight through her.

  When he gently spread her legs and moved over her, she sighed a little in regret. She’d liked it so much, the way he had touched her—and she didn’t want him to stop. It was too bad, really, that the touching and the gentleness couldn’t last forever—but very soon, she knew, she would feel the pressure and the discomfort as he entered her, the out-of-control lunging, the weight of his body as he gained release…

  But he didn’t roll on top of her. She opened her eyes just as he bent his head to the moist curls over her most private area. “You can’t!” she protested.

  “But I can.” He breathed gently on her, and his warm breath sent her straight over the edge.

  After that she wasn’t sure what he did—only that he didn’t stop. With each new touch, before she could gather herself and get a breath, he swept her on to the next and even stronger sensation. His tongue brushed a sensitive little spot that she’d never known she had, and Anne shrieked and surged up off the mattress.

  “I gather you like that?” he whispered, and the vibration of his voice sent her into a spiraling cloud of sensation. But instead of satisfying, his touch now made the hollowness inside her ache. She had never felt anything like it—this intense emptiness, the fierce need to be filled…

  She was aghast at her own reactions but at the same time too frenzied to stop her body from demanding more. If she’d been able to think clearly, she would have been amused by the contradiction. She was shocked at the very idea of wanting him to possess her in that way, while at the same instant she was fr
antic to pull him inside her and reach satisfaction…

  She rocked her hips, trying to urge him closer, and clutched at his shoulders, trying to pull him toward her.

  And then quite suddenly he was simply gone from her. No more tormenting touch between her legs, no more big, warm body looming over her, promising—and delivering—delight…

  She wanted to scream, to pull him back, to demand—she wasn’t sure what. “Please,” she managed to say.

  “A moment’s patience, my sweet,” he said. His voice had a rough edge to it. “I’m protecting you—that’s all. I couldn’t stop now, no matter what.”

  There were no more contradictions in her mind. The instant when she thought he had abandoned her had been too awful to bear. She didn’t know exactly what she waited for, but she knew she must have it—she must have him—or the frustration would kill her.

  When he came back to her, she wrapped her legs around him and buried her hands in his hair, determined not to release him until he’d given her what she wanted. Then, finally, he slid slowly inside her, filling her hollowness with heat and power.

  He had been telling the truth, she thought in awe. It didn’t hurt. In fact, it felt so incredibly right that tears stung her eyelids, and she tried to blink them away.

  “Look at me,” he demanded, and she could do nothing but obey.

  She felt his body tense against her, and then he brushed a hot tear from her temple. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ve hurt you after all.”

  She shook her head, and he kissed her eyelids and very slowly started to pull away.

  He would do that? Interrupt his own pleasure because he thought he’d hurt her? He’d said a moment earlier that he couldn’t stop, no matter what… but he would stop nevertheless?

  “No,” she said. “No—it’s fine. I want…” She couldn’t find the words. She didn’t know the words. Instead she tightened her legs around him, slid her hands down his back, and pulled him more deeply inside her.

  She hadn’t thought it could get better—and yet the more of him she possessed, the more she wanted.

  She gasped with the pleasure of it and whispered, “Make love to me.”

  He stayed still for an instant, as if he didn’t trust that she was telling the truth.

  Instinct told her what to do; she raised her hips slightly, allowing him to penetrate further yet, and she felt his body jolt with the realization that she meant it. His eyes locked with hers, and he began moving. Each long, slow thrust lifted her toward an unseen, unknown goal; each withdrawal made her fear she could never reach it…

  She was staring into his eyes when she could bear no more, when she screamed and shattered. He held himself still as her muscles clenched around him, and then he thrust hard and deep, gave a groan, and collapsed against her.

  They lay tangled together, breathless. Every muscle in her body was still quivering, totally out of control. Her release at the Red Dragon had been a surprise; this had been a revelation. She was still trying to sort out what had happened to her—exactly how he had made her world shift—when he said, “I hurt you, didn’t I? At first, I mean.” He sounded frustrated, angry.

  For a moment Anne’s mind withdrew, afraid of what might come next—and then she realized he wasn’t angry at her but at himself. “No. You didn’t.”

  “You were crying.” He touched her temple with a gentle fingertip, as if retracing the path of the tear he had brushed away.

  “Because it was so beautiful. Because I’ve never felt that way before. Because you are very…” Skilled? Wonderful? Thoughtful? Romantic? Stop blathering this instant, Anne told herself, before you say something that makes him think you’ve forgotten this is only a brief affair!

  He looked intrigued. “I’m… what? Please do go on, my lady.”

  “Arrogant, to think that I might wish to flatter you!”

  He laughed. “Then it was something good you were going to say about me—if you think I have cause to be arrogant over it. I shall treasure your compliment forever.”

  “You’re quite certain of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “It seems I have reason to be,” he pointed out. “You do not appear to be disappointed.” His lips grazed her jawline and moved slowly down her throat, and his tongue flicked playfully against the hollow at the base.

  Her senses stirred once more. “No wonder people take lovers,” she admitted, trying to sound casual. “I’ve never felt so… relaxed.”

  His eyebrow quirked in obvious disbelief. “Are you certain relaxed is the word you want? If it is, I’ve obviously done something wrong.”

  No, she thought. You did everything just right.

  She was looking for a way to say so without adding fuel to the man’s already immense self-confidence when he shifted his weight and freed himself from her arms.

  “No,” she whispered. “Don’t go.”

  “Not in such a hurry anymore?” he teased.

  She sat up a little and watched with curiosity as he took off a little silken-looking pouch and put it aside. “I knew, of course, that there are ways… things a man can use…”

  “To prevent a pregnancy. Yes.”

  “But that isn’t necessary. Not with me.”

  He stood very still. “You sound quite certain.”

  She shrugged. “After four years of marriage and no child, the doctors said…” It’s a good thing, she reminded herself. Especially now. She had no reason to be feeling an inexplicable sadness.

  He came back to the bed, gathering her closely into his arms—skin to skin, warmth to warmth. She saw desire flare once more in his eyes and felt it in the pressure of his body against hers. “You can’t,” she said uncertainly. “Not already.”

  “But I can, my glorious Mrs. Wilde,” he whispered against her lips. “And so can you.”

  This time was different because she knew what to expect. She knew what he would do and how he would bring her to satisfaction. At least she thought she did—but though anticipation certainly built her own arousal to a feverish pitch, she soon found she could not, after all, predict how he would touch her or what he would do next.

  He seemed to be on an expedition to discover which sections of her body were most exquisitely sensitive. She hadn’t known that her elbow was one of them until he kissed it, sending shafts of heat through her. But once she was aware… “I’ll never again be able to walk along a street with a gentleman holding my arm,” she gasped.

  He raised his head. “Oh, no. You’ve nothing to fret about. It only works when the arm’s bare.” He flicked his tongue against the delicate skin inside her elbow, just over the vein. “Unless,” he added thoughtfully, “you’re with me, of course. Then it won’t matter how many layers you’re wearing. The moment I put my hand on you here…” He cupped her elbow with his palm, big and warm and sensuous, and smiled as she nearly jolted off the mattress.

  “Or for that matter here… or here…” He brushed her hand, her wrist, her waist—all the spots where a gentleman might touch a lady even when they were in the most public place—and she knew that the next time they danced together, he would be seducing her even as they spun around the floor, for each touch would remind her of this.

  She writhed in his arms, and he seemed to take pity on her, filling her once more. But then he was still, holding himself deeply inside her while he nibbled her throat and toyed with her hair, until she learned how to stroke him in return with her inner muscles. Then he laughed and began to move.

  His thrusts were long and slow and languorous, as though he was caressing her—or tormenting her, Anne thought. She urged him deeper, arching to meet each thrust with one of her own, until she was rewarded when his breath grew harsh and uneven, his thrusts jerky. Her own climax was even more explosive this time, and a moment later, he gave a hoarse cry and shuddered against her, burying his face in her hair as he came.

  ***

  When the small, elegant, unmarked carriage delivered her home, Digby admitted her with a
bow. “Lord and Lady Braxton are at tea, my lady.”

  Anne took a deep breath and waited for the butler to open the drawing-room door for her. It required immense effort not to brush a hand over her hair, trying to reassure herself that it would pass inspection. She reminded herself that the neat little maid who had come to help her dress—Mary, her name was—had been very skilled, as well as surprisingly respectful.

  But then she probably takes care of all the mistresses, Anne thought, and wondered again exactly how many of them had paraded through that bedroom.

  Madeleine set the teapot down on the low table in front of the fire and looked directly at Anne. “Digby tells me you sent the carriage home while you paid your call.”

  “It seemed foolish to keep it waiting about for hours when you might need it.”

  “But how did you know your call would require hours?” Madeleine asked softly.

  Watch your step, Anne. “I assumed we would have much to talk of. If my visit had been shorter, Mrs. Wilde would still have sent me safely home.”

  “Much to talk of? An elderly woman you met once at Keighley Park and barely remembered? And don’t you find it odd that a woman who never goes out keeps a carriage?”

  Braxton bit into a cream cake. “Now, Maddy. Maybe it makes it easier for her friends to come and visit.”

  Madeleine opened her mouth and then obviously thought better of it.

  “Anyway,” Braxton went on, “it seems to me that Anne was being thoughtful. You were saying last week we needed to add another carriage, now that she’s with us.” He finished off the pastry and inspected the cake stand. “But I must say I think your time would be better spent in society, Anne, rather than dancing attendance on an invalid. I saw Freddy at the club today. He was looking downcast because you wouldn’t go driving with him this afternoon.”

  “He knew perfectly well I had a previous appointment and could not break it. Braxton, why are you so set on me spending time with Freddy Lassiter?”

  “Not Freddy necessarily.” Braxton shrugged. “But how you can decide on a husband if you don’t even look around is beyond me.”

  “I’ve told you—I don’t care to choose a husband.”