Her Mystery Duke

by Blackthorne, Natasha

  Ribbon-and-lace garters trimmed with rosettes.

  Above-the-elbow silk gloves with real pearl buttons.

  Dainty, low-heeled velvet slippers with gilded buckles.

  Heavens.

  She walked slowly, carefully to the huge, brass-framed mirror and then startled. The woman staring back at her didn’t seem real. Her hair, made to look impossibly light gold by the dark gown, was twisted into a waterfall of ringlets crowned by a wreath of pink roses, and embellished with more pearls and a dark blue ribbon with gilded edges. The scent of carnation and lemon and spice and something she couldn’t identify floated in the air, the perfume Mrs. Alligood had rubbed on her neck and upper bosom before dressing her.

  David wanted to see her like this. Why did that make a difference? She wasn’t quite sure, but it had. She wanted to please him.

  As he entered, though he wore that aloof, dignified mask of an expression, she could tell by the way his eyes widened, by the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple, that the gown pleased him. The sight of her pleased him. She felt beautiful and all things womanly. In that moment, it didn’t matter if she ever wrote another story, another scene, another word. She might never again have a chance at publication.

  It didn’t matter.

  She wanted to go to him and fall to her knees. Right here in this dignified chamber where he entertained his guests. She would slowly unbutton his fall, take his cock out, and suck and stroke him until he lost all sanity from the pleasure. The urge, the need was so strong, a slight tremor shuddered along her frame. Her knees weakened. She shifted her position then wet her lips and swallowed, pushing the whole silly scene to the back of her mind.

  It wouldn’t be chased away. Instead the urge became stronger as he approached. His shaving soap wafted on the air between them. He smiled that faint little smile which made her heart catch. “Come, my darling.”

  He offered her his arm and she accepted. She wasn’t a bold courtesan after all.

  She sat immediately on his right at the long table. Candlelight bathed the white cloth in soft, dancing tones of yellow-orange and twinkled through the crystal glasses in sparkling miniature rainbows.

  The array of delicately painted white-and-blue china and luminous silver cutlery dismayed her. She didn’t want David to think she was crude, uncultured. But she was unlearned and as common as plain woolen stockings, and there was no hiding it now.

  Well, she would just watch and see in what order he used everything and copy him. Yes, no need to worry.

  The one servant present laid their meal out with a stiff, unhappy expression, and then he stepped back.

  “You may leave us, Johnson.”

  Jeanne watched the man leave. “I don’t think he approves of my being here.”

  “It‘s not his place to approve or disapprove. However, he’s always like that. I suppose I find it preferable to a personal servant who is forever effervescently cheerful. I am not married. I may bring my mistress to my house if I choose.”

  “Do you often do so?”

  “No, you are the first to grace my table.”

  “Truthfully?”

  “I have only had one other mistress,” he said, as if she’d already given her consent to be his mistress. “But I was young and my father was the Duke of Hartley then and he didn’t approve.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” To her surprise she was, for she had heard the hurt in his voice.

  “I think he was right to disapprove. I cannot fault him now.” His voice carried such deep regret that it resonated in her own heart.

  “Why do you feel that way?”

  “Because it all ended so badly for everyone involved. Especially for Thérèse.” His face tightened with a very forced-looking smile. “But let us not dwell on the past tonight.”

  She was disappointed. She had wanted to hear the whole story of his liaison with Thérèse, to offer her sympathy, but she would not pry. However, there was something else she wanted to know. “That woman in your box at the theatre last night…”

  Her voice faded away with mortification as the implication of what she was asking washed over her. One did not ask a gentleman about his women.

  But David did not look offended. “Isabella is my brother Henry’s wife.”

  “Oh.”

  He smiled. “She’s a friend. My brother is not fond of social events and he rarely escorts her.”

  “She’s frightfully beautiful.’

  He stared at her for a moment. “I suppose she is but I have never looked at her that way.”

  “No?”

  “It would be incestuous—in more ways than one.” His voice held a note of finality that signaled he had no wish to continue speaking of this subject.

  She turned her attention to her food. It was a relaxed meal served in one sitting of roasted beef with a rich wine sauce, parsnips, roasted pears, and simple fresh-baked bread. She was grateful for that because she couldn’t really swallow more than tiny mouthfuls. She kept glancing about at the elegant décor. Gleaming, dark wood. Bright, shiny brass. Pure beeswax candles. Her own expensive gown and her silk-clad legs that kept sliding against each other. The new garters itched.

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Not much.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “A little.” She looked about again. “Everything is so grand. This room seems so vast.”

  “Yes, when I was child, the wide space in here used to make me nervous, too. I suppose I’ve become accustomed to the scale. I like this chamber now. It makes me feel as though there are no limits. The air is clear here. At the House Of Lords, The Inns and the clubs, there’s always so much breathing down each other’s necks, everyone always in each other’s affairs.”

  “You were afraid of this room as a child?” It was to imagine him as a small child.

  He glanced up at the ceiling and his body seemed to grow tense, as though it were an instinctive response. For a moment, she could picture him as a small boy, listening, holding himself rigid in terrible anticipation. But in response to what?

  “I was terrified by most things in this house.” He appeared to shake himself and he smiled. “Your evening at the theatre was interrupted last evening.”

  “Yes, it was.” She didn’t really want to dwell on last night. There would be time later to think over everything that had come to pass.

  “Do you often attend the theatre?”

  “No, goodness, no.”

  “I want to take you to the Italian Opera House tonight. Would you come?”

  “Yes.” The expensive gown made a great deal more sense. His desire to please her, to make up for the loss of a cherished experience put a curl of warmth into her chest. She noticed her cheeks were aching. She had not smiled so much, so often, since…well, since she could even remember. His statement about a servant who was always effervescently cheerful came to mind. She was not like this, like a giggling bird-wit. He did this to her and it made her uncomfortable for someone else to have that power over her. Power over her relative happiness. It made her feel a bit foolish and heat crept over her cheeks.

  She’d learned a long time ago that one couldn’t depend on others for happiness, or shared shoring up of spirits, or any sort of positive emotional experience. This was so dangerous.

  However, she couldn’t deny herself the pleasure. She hadn’t been able to resist the temptations of all the pleasures he’d shown her. She ran her fingers over the fine, soft velvet covering her lap.

  “Will it please you?”

  She couldn’t look up. Couldn’t face him. If she did, she feared she would laugh with the pure joy of anticipation. The Italian Opera House. Goodness, she had longed to simply see the interior. Now she would spend an entire evening there in the Duke of Hartley’s fine box. Wearing a gown fit for a princess. She had obviously wandered into one of her own fairy tales.

  “I think it should please me very well, David.”

  * * * *

  As they walked do
wn the front steps of Somerville House, Jeanne kept glancing down, sure that she was going to step on the lavish lace-trimmed hem. But the skirt rested just at her ankles.

  Right before they left, he had given her a very expensive dark blue velvet pelisse that fastened with brass frogs. Emotion still pressed on her throat from the exchange. She had never imagined wearing such fine garments.

  “Hartley, wait.”

  She looked up. The woman from David’s box the night before, Isabella, was approaching, the plumes in her hat tossed by the wind. Her face was flushed and she was breathless.

  Jeanne dropped her hand from David’s arm, an almost guilty gesture.

  “Isabella,” David said.

  “I was coming over. I thought you were ill again.”

  He gave the thinnest smile. “I may cancel an evening without being ill.”

  “You never cancel.”

  David turned to Jeanne. “Isabella, this is my friend, Miss Darling. Miss Darling, may I present my sister-in-law, Lady Isabella Somerville.”

  Isabella turned and somehow without making any acknowledging eye contact, her gaze raked Jeanne from head to foot. Her brows drew together. “Is she from the Society? I do not remember seeing her before nor have I heard of her name.”

  “Lady Somerville is speaking of the Society for the Better Treatment for Insane Persons,” David explained. “No, Isabella, Miss Darling is a personal friend.”

  Isabella’s mouth dropped open softly and her eyes went a little wide. “Oh.”

  She pulled her hands close to her body, flickered a glance in Jeanne’s direction, and then looked quickly away. “Oh, I see. Well, I must be going.”

  “Of course. I shall see you on Saturday evening.”

  “Yes, Saturday evening.” Isabella turned and hurried back down the street.

  David turned to Jeanne and offered his arm again. He was silent until they were seated inside the carriage. “I apologize; that was very awkward. My brother lives two houses down but I didn’t expect her to come here this evening.”

  Jeanne was all too aware of his leg resting so close to hers. “She was worried about you.”

  “She is annoyed that I won’t be escorting her tonight. I cannot blame her. However, it is just one more of so many endless balls, concerts, routs of the Season. Perhaps it will do her good to stay home and keep my brother company.”

  “She was shocked.”

  “She was inexcusably rude. How often have I shaken hands with and smiled into the faces of her various cicisbei and pretended nothing was amiss? In any case, perhaps she learned a lesson. Isabella should not come to my home unannounced and uninvited.”

  “She assumed I am your mistress.”

  His gaze turned heated as he reached her hand. “Aren’t you?”

  “No, I am simply your friend.”

  * * * *

  Moonlight peeked between layers of clouds, making the little house glow bluish-white. Its neat, green-painted shutters looked black, as did the winter-dormant flower boxes beneath each window. She turned to David.

  Snow dotted his dark hair. Flakes fell and instantly melted on her lips. Lips that still tingled. The taste of his mouth seemed forever imprinted on her tongue. His scent still intoxicated her senses. Despite the cold, her blood still smoldered and hummed. They had exchanged countless, impassioned kisses in the carriage, on the way home from the most magical experience she’d ever known. The Italian Opera House had met and exceeded her most imaginative daydreams of color, richness, and elegance. Her ears, her blood, and her very bones seemed to pulsate with an echo of the music. A lovely panorama of emotion burned and pressed upon her throat.

  But now it was time to settle back to reality and put her feet firmly on the ground. Too much happiness could be hazardous. Especially to the heart. “You said you were taking me home.”

  “I have taken you home. This shall be your home from now on.”

  “I tried to tell you gently before but now I shall be blunt, I don’t want to be your whore.”

  He winced. “Whore is such an ugly word, Jeanne.”

  “Harlot?”

  “My darling, I am asking you to be my mistress, not my whore.”

  “I don’t see the difference.”

  “There is one, I assure you.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “A man pays a whore to leave. He pays a mistress to stay.”

  “Now you want to pay me to stay?”

  “I want to cherish you. To provide for and protect you.” He took her hands. “This is very discreet. It is a quiet street, filled with decent, hard-working people who mind their own business.”

  “People never mind their own business.”

  “Jeanne, you live in a virtual brothel in Whitechapel. Now you’re concerned that a few busybodies here may judge you because I shall be paying your bills and visiting you?”

  “No, you misunderstand. I live there because I had no choice when Papa became too ill to pay the taxes on our home. Everything we had was confiscated and resold to pay his debts. People in that boardinghouse do not judge me because they know what hardship is. But that is my past. My future is to support myself with real, honest work—not whoring.”

  “There’s that word again.”

  “Is the truth too blunt for you? I have been a whore.”

  “As you say, it is in your past. Neither of us wants to see you enter that line of work again. I am offering you something from my heart.” He put his hand on the small of her back. “Come, it is frigid out tonight. At least have a look at the house.”

  She sighed. “If I do, will you then be satisfied with my refusal?”

  A slight tensing of his sensual mouth told of his irritation. “Just have a look inside.”

  With his hand quite fierce against her back, he began walking towards the house.

  “Just have a look inside.”

  He was so determined. What else could she say? After he’d been so kind, so thoughtful of her this evening, it would be churlish of her to refuse to at least look at the house.

  “Oh, very well.”

  If he could be determined, so could she. She would have a look and then leave. It was perfectly safe.

  Chapter Eight

  Once the door had shut, they were surrounded by darkness. The air was scented with new paint and what smelled like rose and lavender sachets. There was a slight chill and Jeanne hugged her shoulders. She heard him fumbling with something, and then soft yellow lamplight filled the entryway.

  “I have hired servants, but they shan’t arrive until tomorrow.” He touched her pelisse. She allowed him to help her remove it. He hung it on a hook by the door then removed his greatcoat.

  The house was silent. The sense of seclusion and intimacy hit her. They were totally alone here. If she called out, no one would hear. No one would come.

  He had paid for this house for the sole purpose of making her body available for his use. The thought filled her with a definite sense of the difference in their positions in life. The difference in their power in this situation.

  He picked up the lamp and met her eyes. Something primal crackled on the air between them. The carnal tension that had developed and built all evening since he had put his head into her lap and asked her to wear the evening gown. Edgy energy seemed to spark along her skin. An uneasy mix of arousal and apprehension fluttered in her belly.

  He walked to a darkened doorway to the left.

  She followed him, and his lamplight revealed a sitting room decorated in tones of deep red and blue. A lush sensual place.

  A place where lush, sensual things might happen.

  Her sense of agitation increased. It was as though she hung precariously over a precipice waiting for something to push her.

  A soft clink sounded. David setting the lamp down. Though the thick rug muffled his footfalls, she sensed his approach in her skin, like a magnet’s force upon metal. From behind her, he touched her shoulders. She’d been expecting it but she s
till startled. Perhaps it was more enjoyable to be startled?

  He gave her a gentle but firm push.

  His resolve made her knees weak and she allowed him to propel her toward a plush-looking, dark blue velvet divan.

  She would have turned but he put his hands on her back and pressed her down. His forcefulness surprised her. Sent a thrill through her. She let him press her until she knelt on the deep, jewel-toned, swirling patterns of the rug.

  Her hands touched the soft cushion. The sense of the crispness of new velvet crushing under her gloved hands gave her a peculiar notion that her teeth itched.

  He swept her hair aside and grasped the back of her neck. “Don’t move.”

  His hot breath tickled her ear and sent a delicious shudders cascading down her spine. Her nipples stiffened as if exposed to frosty morning air.

  She felt the wrenching motions of him adjusting his clothing.

  “I cannot concentrate, I cannot sleep,” he said. “I think of nothing but having you beneath me like this.”

  Her skirts came up and a whoosh of chilly air assaulted her bareness. With a slow, sweeping motion, he caressed her buttocks. “You have surely the world’s most gorgeous arse. The memory of it is forever burned into my mind.”

  Smack!

  His hand made contact with her right buttock. A slight burning tingle bloomed. A giggle forced its way up her throat. A nervous, bubbly giggle born of pure shock. She ruthlessly suppressed it. He was always shocking her. None of her other lovers had bothered with such peculiar preliminaries. He laid several more light slaps to her flesh.

  Crack!

  He spanked her with more force. Stinging pain erupted in its wake—and yet it was not pain, for it sent fire directly to her nub. A feeling of letting go, of giving all of her body over to him swept her. The notion, the sensation aroused her further. She arched her back, presenting her bottom unwittingly for the return of his hand. He was really spanking her now, something she never thought she’d ever allow anyone to do. But the action continued to send waves of pure carnal heat radiating deep into her belly, making her nub ever more erect and throbbing. She lost track of how many times his hand landed on her buttocks. The rhythmic rain of fiery pleasure-pain consumed her.