The Mistress' House

by Leigh Michaels

  “Don’t be silly. You just need some liveliness in a man after old Keighley.”

  “Freddy’s certainly lively,” Anne murmured. She wondered if Thorne was right and Freddy was seeking a fortune. Or did Thorne merely think the worst of him?

  Because he’s jealous, I suppose? Don’t be a fool.

  “Indeed,” Braxton said, “Freddy knows how to have fun. You could learn a lot from him, whether you want to marry him or not. I told him you’d drive with him tomorrow. It will be good for you to get out and to be seen in the park, not just in the ballrooms.”

  Digby came in, carrying a small, brightly wrapped package. “This was just delivered for you, Lady Keighley.”

  Anne accepted it warily. But she could think of no option except to open the parcel—no possible excuse for delaying until she was alone. The only marking was her name, but her heart told her who must have sent it.

  You asked to be ruined, she reminded herself, and this just might do it.

  And what if it did? At least then Braxton would stop throwing men at her, and Madeleine would stop asking uncomfortable questions—indeed, would probably stop speaking to her at all—and Anne would no longer have to watch every word, every look, every thought…

  She pulled on the cord and loosened the wrapping paper. Inside the small box was the exquisite enameled butterfly, its wings edged with tiny garnets and topaz, that she’d seen in the jewelry shop.

  She opened the card. The jewel of the collection, it said. With the compliments of Mrs. Wilde. May she expect the pleasure of your company again tomorrow?

  Anne was mortally certain Hawthorne hadn’t been thinking about butterflies, or small enameled ornaments, when he’d composed that note. He’d been thinking of her—the jewel of his collection. At least, she supposed, the current jewel.

  Tomorrow… a delicious little curl of anticipation tickled her from head to toe. Tomorrow they would once again explore…

  Madeline was looking over her shoulder at the note. “What a pity it is you can’t go.” Insincerity dripped from her voice.

  “Why can’t I?” Anne asked absently.

  “Because you have a previous engagement—with Freddy. And you’ve just finished telling us how strongly you feel about not changing your plans once they’ve been arranged.” She picked up her cup. “Have you not, dearest Anne?”

  ***

  The last place Thorne would have chosen to spend an evening was at the opera. But that, his sources told him, was where Lady Keighley would be—so that was where he would go as well.

  Ordinarily, after the sort of afternoon they’d shared, he would have sent a gift and then let a few days—perhaps even a week—go by before issuing another invitation. It wasn’t wise to let a lady think that he had nothing better to do than dance attendance on her.

  But in this case, wisdom seemed to have nothing to do with it. Who was he trying to fool? Not himself, that was certain. He hadn’t been able to get enough of her—and far too soon, the time had come when he had had no choice but to summon the carriage and send her home.

  So he had dispatched a footman with the jeweled butterfly, including that suggestive little note, and then he’d sat back with a glass of wine to relive the afternoon. What a fascinating mix she was—part lady and part… not, he thought with a smile.

  He was still in the little sitting room on Upper Seymour Street, planning their encounter for the following day, when the footman returned with her reply.

  It was brief and to the point, advising him that she could not call on the morrow and had no idea when she would once more be free.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised, of course. A lady could scarcely disappear from society for two afternoons in a row without causing comment. He should have known better than to suggest it.

  But that was exactly the sort of comment she’d said she wanted, he reminded himself. Though perhaps it was not the sort he wished to invite. Not yet, at any rate—for once society knew of their affair, a great deal of the intrigue would vanish, and with it the fun, the challenge, the fascination.

  No, he wasn’t ready for Lady Keighley to be known as his newest mistress. Not now, and perhaps not for a long while to come. At least, not as long as afternoons with his glorious Mrs. Wilde were as satisfying as today had been.

  Still, that note of hers hadn’t simply been a refusal. It had been stiff, curt, almost cold—and he wasn’t about to let her dismiss him like that.

  He dined at his house on Portman Square, looked in at his club, and arrived at the opera just before intermission. Lady Stone spotted him and waved from her box; Thorne bowed in acknowledgment and made his way across the crowd to join her.

  “You’re looking well fed,” she greeted him. “And not on roast beef, I’ll wager.”

  He kissed her hand and pretended not to hear the remark.

  She gave him a beady look. “What’s this I hear about a new fancy of yours? A Mrs. Wilde?”

  “Hardly a fancy. A neighbor, rather.” Thorne’s gaze roved the boxes and found Lady Keighley, wearing a dress of deep garnet red that left her remarkable shoulders nearly bare. Freddy was right next to her, of course—probably looking down her cleavage—but there were others as well. The entire collection of suitors must be there. She’d mentioned four serious candidates—but, of course, that had been a couple of days ago. By now, Braxton might have given his permission to another half dozen. One thing about the man, he didn’t seem to play favorites.

  “A busy place tonight, Braxton’s box,” Lady Stone said. “Ah—here comes Charlotte Barnsley. I haven’t seen her since the night of my ball.”

  Thorne wanted to groan. Instead he did the pretty by bowing over Charlotte’s hand when she fluttered into Lady Stone’s box, her escort trailing behind. “What a lovely surprise to see you here, Thorne,” Charlotte cooed and then dropped her voice. “I’ve been packing everything I—we—could possibly need for the house party.”

  Oh, yes. Arabella Winchester’s house party—the one he wouldn’t have been caught dead at, even before Lady Keighley had caught his eye… Surely he hadn’t forgotten to send Charlotte a note to say he would not be going? It was true that his mind had been preoccupied with other matters ever since Lady Stone’s ball… But no, he remembered telling Perkins exactly what to say—it had taken quite a little effort to get the phrasing just right.

  Damnation. He’d looked away from the Braxton box for one brief instant, and Lady Keighley had vanished. No, there she was; she’d just been hidden behind the considerable bulk of one of her suitors.

  “Whatever are you looking at?” Charlotte asked. She darted a glance at her escort and lowered her voice. “Perhaps we could travel to the Winchesters’ estate together. When will you be going?”

  Thorne suppressed a shudder at the idea of a full day in a closed carriage with Charlotte Barnsley. “I’m not.”

  Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “You told me you were going.”

  “I told you I’d been invited,” he corrected as gently as he could. “But I’m staying in town instead. Did you not receive my note?”

  “Well, of course I did,” she said impatiently. “But I didn’t think you meant it—only that you wanted it to appear to be happenstance when we met at the Winchesters’ after all. I even showed it to Barnsley so he wouldn’t be suspicious.”

  Thorne felt his jaw going slack and was grateful that he’d expended so much effort on that little missive. There was nothing that Barnsley could possibly object to, was there? Surely Perkins wouldn’t have taken it upon himself to add a flourish or two of his own… No, not straitlaced, reliable Perkins. “I had no such Machiavellian motives, Lady Barnsley—I have business that requires my presence in town.”

  “Yes, that’s what your note said. Business!” Her tone made the word sound like a curse. But she seemed to think better of it, for she reined in her temper with an effort that made her face go red—a shade that did not go at all well with her hair. “I don’t suppose you’d really
be staying because of someone named Mrs. Wilde, instead?”

  “Do you know her?” Thorne kept his tone casual. “How interesting.”

  “I do not. Perhaps you can introduce me.”

  It was amazing, he thought, that Charlotte could talk at all with her teeth clenched so tightly. “She doesn’t go out in society,” he said.

  “But I understand she receives callers.”

  “I will ask if she would like you to visit her,” he said politely, “when she’s well enough to again receive me.”

  Charlotte turned her back on him and flounced out. Her escort shrugged, bowed to Lady Stone, and followed.

  “Yes,” Lady Stone said meditatively, “she really is as thick as she seems. You know, dear boy, I was quite beginning to think you’d lost your touch—letting Charlotte Barnsley reel you in. Such a relief it is to know better.”

  Thorne barely heard her. He was once again eyeing the Braxton box, looking for Lady Keighley. But this time there was truly nothing to see.

  The box was empty. She was gone.

  ***

  Anne was floating on a sea of white silk, her body aflame as he caressed her, when suddenly an anxious little voice interfered. “My lady? Oh, do wake up, my lady.”

  She blinked. “Polly?” Her voice felt rough, and her body ached with desire—the more so because this afternoon, instead of lying once more in his arms, she would be driving out with Freddy.

  This will never do, she thought. If Hawthorne could invade her dreams… How he would enjoy knowing that!

  “There’s a message for you.”

  Anne sat up, puzzled, and reached for the much-folded slip of paper Polly held out. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “Not yet eight. But James…” Polly colored a bit. “He told me the man who gave it to him said it was important you get it right away.”

  “James being your tame footman, I presume?” Anne pressed the paper flat.

  My dearest early riser: Join me this morning? I shall wait for you.

  It was not signed, of course. Hawthorne wouldn’t have taken that much of a risk, in case one of the servants had an attack of conscience or the slip of paper went astray. But there was no question who the note had come from or what it meant.

  She toyed with the paper for a moment, delaying. “And where did James come by this interesting missive?”

  “From a groom he knows. I don’t know who he works for, but James said it’s one of the grand houses on a big square.”

  She shouldn’t go, of course. She should burn the note, send Polly away, pull the coverlet over her head, and return to her dreams…

  Why, when you can have the reality instead?

  It was almost as if Hawthorne himself stood there, asking the question. Anne found herself pushing back the blankets, helpless to resist.

  “We’re going shopping,” she told Polly. “At least, you’re going shopping, and so far as anyone else knows, I’ll have been just a step or two away in the next shop the entire time you’re going up and down Oxford Street.”

  Polly chewed her lip doubtfully.

  Inspiration struck. “We’ll take James with us to carry all the bundles,” Anne added. “Which means—as long as you manage to collect a convincing number of bundles to prove how busily we’ve shopped—I don’t care a rap what the two of you do with the rest of the morning.”

  Polly’s face started to glow. “Oh, my lady! I’m sure James will have some ideas of what we might do.”

  Anne didn’t doubt it a bit.

  And who are you to talk, my lady? she scolded herself.

  Half an hour later, they set off in a little parade—Anne wrapped in her best dark purple cloak, Polly following two steps behind, and James bringing up the rear. As soon as they crossed Oxford Street and left the shops behind, Anne pulled her hood closer and walked a little faster.

  She paused in front of Number 5 Upper Seymour Street, and when the door didn’t immediately open, she wondered for the first time if she might have made a mistake. He had not, after all, actually specified where to meet—or when. He might have reminded her of being an early riser because he wanted her to come to the Red Dragon…

  No, surely not. He liked his creature comforts; he’d said so himself. And she was certain he would no longer be satisfied with a romp in the private parlor of an inn—not after their last tryst.

  She looked across the street to where Polly and James hovered, wondering if she should summon them to escort her home.

  The door swung open as before, but this time the butler wasn’t the one who stood in the shadowed foyer. It was Hawthorne. She stepped across the threshold into warmth—and pleasure—in his arms.

  ***

  She was cold. Thorne could see it in her face and feel it in the brush of her wool cloak against his hands. Clearly, she had not so much as hesitated; the moment she received his message, she had hurried to him… Something primitive stirred deep inside him—something he didn’t want to think about. “You’re freezing,” he said, and swept her up in his arms. “I’ve had a fire lit upstairs.”

  “Without waiting for me?” she murmured.

  He smiled at the playful tone. “It’s a poor substitute compared to the one we’ll kindle together, Mrs. Wilde.” He didn’t stop in the sitting room but carried her straight into the bedroom, which was warm with firelight and fragrant with beeswax candles everywhere.

  She was just as impatient as she had been the day before, he sensed—but from a different, far more delightful cause. Today, she knew the pleasure that awaited her… or at least she thought she did. He still had a few surprises in mind.

  Her eagerness fed his own, and he undressed her quickly and, without a word, joined her in the bed.

  She whispered, “I dreamed of you last night, my lord.”

  “Did you?” He kissed her, long and slowly. “Perhaps you should tell me what we did in your dream. It might be more fun when you’re awake, and we can share.”

  She turned a shade of pink so delicious that he wanted to start with her eyebrows and lick every inch of her all the way to her toes. “I can’t… say those things,” she whispered. “Not out loud.”

  Thorne swallowed hard. Twice. It didn’t help much.

  Her fantasies might be innocent ones—or not—but just imagining what she might have seen in her dreams was enough to make him dizzy. “Then perhaps I shall experiment,” he said. “I trust you’ll let me know when I achieve the desired effect?”

  He nuzzled her neck and let his tongue trail softly along the fullness of her lower lip, tracing the outline of her mouth. She tasted like chocolate. He had never before understood how some people could be so fond of the flavor, but suddenly Thorne saw the attraction. Chocolate and Anne’s lips—now that was a potent combination. One he’d like to sip every morning…

  At least for a while, he told himself. Days, absolutely. Weeks, yes. Months…?

  Why this sudden obsession with time? he asked himself. Now was all that counted—and right now, she was here—in his arms, with the taste of her morning chocolate still on her lips…

  She arched against him as he nibbled the corner of her mouth. “My lord,” she said softly.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Though you refuse to tell me of your fantasies, I’ll share mine. I want to hear you say my name.”

  “You mean…” She stretched a little. Her breasts brushed his chest, and desire slammed through him. “…Mr. Wilde?”

  “My friends call me Thorne.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Not rose? Or stem?”

  “Minx.” He held her face between his hands. “Say it.”

  When she finally did, his name was no more than a sensual whisper on her lips, caressing his skin like the silken strands of her hair. Any hope he might have had of maintaining control slipped out of his grasp. He pulled her under him and, with one strong thrust, buried himself deep within her. She was ready for him, hot and slick, and their joining was as quick and breathless as though they had b
oth been starving.

  Afterward, he nestled her close and toyed with her for a while—caressing and teasing. He let his fingertips wander across her stomach, and when she asked what he was doing, he said, “I’m writing my name on your skin, Mrs. Wilde—so you will never forget.”

  She frowned just a little, as if he’d sounded odd. He thought it was quite likely. What had made him say something so possessive, so demanding—and so supremely foolish? Of course she would never forget him, just as he would never forget her. He had never felt quite this way with any other mistress, but then none of them had been the odd combination Anne was—part lady, part fishwife, a seductress so shy she had no idea of her own power…

  But he didn’t want to think of that just now. He wanted to make love to her while there was still time—before she had to leave him and return to the ordinary world. He didn’t want her to leave…

  So he started all over again to seduce her, distracting her—and himself—until there was no more room in either of their minds for rational thought.

  ***

  The morning had been gray; the afternoon was dismal and positively chilly. When Freddy arrived, Anne suggested that they give up the notion of a drive in the park. “We could sit by the fire and chat,” she suggested brightly, and tried not to think of what she’d rather be doing instead.

  Not chatting, that was sure.

  You’re insatiable, Anne Keighley. You were just with your lover this morning…

  Though when she thought it over, they had actually talked in the intervals between making love. It had been mostly nonsense, of course…

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m writing my name on your skin, Mrs. Wilde—so you will never forget.”

  But Freddy just shook his head at the idea. “New team. Prime high-steppers. Can’t keep them just walking up and down the street while I sit by the fire, you know.”

  And she really couldn’t tell him that the reason she knew it was too cold to be comfortable while driving in the park was because she’d walked to Upper Seymour Street that morning…

  So, reluctantly, Anne changed into a wool carriage dress with a matching cloak and joined Freddy in his curricle to drive through Hyde Park. On the way, as they left Grosvenor Square, she caught a glimpse of a baggage wagon being loaded in front of Charlotte Barnsley’s house.