An Affair with a Notorious Heiress

by Lorraine Heath

  Damn it! Why couldn’t he let it go?

  He heard a short burst of harsh laughter.

  “It’s difficult to describe. You’re accustomed to servants showing you deference. Ours had little ways of implying—with tones or the upturning of a nose or questioning a request—that I wasn’t quite up to snuff. I was American. What did I know about what was right and proper?”

  “You should have sacked the lot of them.”

  She turned back to him and as they passed a streetlamp, the light caught her small, sad smile. “I wasn’t allowed to. Downie’s mother, the dowager countess, was still in charge. She lived with us. The day after we were married, she was waiting for me at breakfast, determined to ensure I had done my duty the night before. I suppose she was going to deny me sustenance if I hadn’t admitted to enduring the unpleasantness in the bedchamber without complaint.”

  “Was it unpleasant?” While he’d never taken a virgin, he knew discomfort, possibly pain, could be involved.

  “Not overly much. I was inexperienced. My mother had told me nothing. All I knew about the act of breeding I learned watching horses, so I was a bit nervous. I suppose all brides are. Anyway, his mother informed me I was to see to my duty posthaste and deliver a son to my husband. A daughter would not be tolerated. I was to produce boys. Only boys until we had an heir and a spare. Then perhaps a daughter would be welcomed.”

  He tried not to read things into what she hadn’t said. It wasn’t his place to pry but he did wonder if Landsdowne had been patient, gentle. Still he let the topic return to what she was willing to discuss. “We do seem obsessed with gaining our heirs,” he said quietly. “Although I don’t think my father would have objected if Grace had been born first.”

  “But I wasn’t married to your father. And it’s a bit difficult to get with child when your husband leaves you at the country estate for long stretches.”

  “Leaves you? You mean alone?”

  “With his dragon of a mother. He had matters to see to. I never learned her name.”

  Downie had been having an affair? Why the bloody hell would he do that when he had Tillie? She said she’d been lonely, the servant kind. Christ, Rexton would not have left her for a single night, a single hour. He certainly wouldn’t have gone to another’s bed. “Did you love him?”

  “I thought I did. I wanted to. I wanted to marry for more than a title. Perhaps I was merely in love with the idea of being in love. I look at Gina sometimes . . . and have difficulty believing I was ever that young. Six years separate us, but there are times when it seems we are separated by a century.” She released a bitter laugh, looked back out the window. “Only a little while ago, I said I wouldn’t discuss him and now I’ve gone on and on.”

  He was torn between being grateful at having a clearer understanding of what her life might have been—the reasons behind her decisions—and wishing he’d remained in blessed ignorance. He didn’t like thinking of her being unappreciated. “He was undeserving of you.”

  “His mother and sister thought he deserved better than me. His sister treated me as atrociously as his mother did. My dowry helped her become the Countess of Blanford. Would the earl have given her the time of day if Downie hadn’t used a portion of what I brought to the marriage for her dowry? Yet she never had a kind word. When she discovered me with the footman—the look on her face. It wasn’t horror but triumph because she knew she would be rid of me. And I was glad of it.” Her gaze once more landed on him, and he felt the weight, the intensity, of it. “What of you? Surely not all your relationships ended happily?”

  “I have nothing to rival what you experienced.” But she’d been open with him, more open than he suspected she’d ever been where he was concerned. “There was a girl. Her name was Emmaline. She sold flowers near the school. I was fifteen and fancied myself in love. She stepped out with me one evening. Lifted her skirts for me.” Now he was the one to glance out the window. They were nearly to Landsdowne Court.

  “She was your first,” Tillie said quietly.

  “No, actually. She would have been but the lad with whom she was living showed up with some of his mates. Because I was all agog at what she was offering, I didn’t notice them until it was too late. They beat the bloody hell out of me, took everything of value, stripped me bare. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get about the city when you’re not wearing a stitch of clothing?”

  “Whatever did you do?”

  Looking at her, he was glad to hear the interest in her voice, the underlying shimmer of laughter she refrained from releasing. He hadn’t wanted to end the night with her melancholy, thinking of her past. He shouldn’t have asked about her marriage, the footman, or Downie. He wouldn’t again.

  “Hid within some bushes until it was full dark. Then cautiously began making my way back to school. Stole a blanket from somewhere, some trousers that were too large from someone’s clothesline. I never saw her again. She no doubt saw me as an easy mark. I should have known better, considering my mother’s past.”

  “What if the lad hurt her for carrying on with you?”

  He shook his head. “No, she was laughing too much for that and I overheard him praising her ingenuity as his boys pummeled me.” He leaned forward. “But I learned that I can’t judge other people based on someone else’s actions. The next time I fancied myself in love with a girl, she provided more pleasant memories.”

  “Fancy yourself in love a lot, do you?”

  He grinned. “When I was younger, yes. But with age has come more discerning tastes, at least where my heart is concerned.”

  The carriage came to a stop. She raised the hood on the cloak over her head.

  The door opened. He made to exit. She touched his arm, stilling him as effectively as if she’d suddenly appeared before him like a brick wall. “Where are you going?”

  “To escort you to the door.”

  “I don’t need people to see you.”

  “My hat will shade my face. Besides, there is a good distance between your residence and any other. I doubt anyone is looking out this time of morning. I’m not going to let you traipse off by yourself as though I haven’t a care for you.”

  Chapter 13

  His words—a care for you—echoed through her thoughts as though he’d proclaimed his love. But care was a far distance from love. She couldn’t insert meanings that had no bearing into his words. Her heart was balancing precariously enough as it was, wanting more from him, knowing she could never acquire it. She could never be more than his mistress, more than the woman with whom he had an affair.

  He was destined for a dukedom. He required—deserved—a woman above reproach.

  She constantly reminded herself of that fact as she made her way through the following day and evening, as her nerve endings grew taut with each passing hour that brought the clock nearer to the stroke of eleven. She suspected she’d get no reprieve tonight. But then she didn’t want one. She wanted him, wanted them together.

  With the hood of her cloak already covering her head, she was standing at the front window in the foyer when she saw the carriage approaching. She was out the door and down the steps before it stopped. The footman opened the door, assisted her inside.

  And he was there. His scent and his warmth wafting around her. His presence bringing such gladness. She almost told him that this day had been the longest of her life, but experience had taught her to be cautious with her heart, her hopes, her dreams.

  “I thought the night would never get here,” he said, his voice a low thrum in the darkness. “How did you occupy yourself today?”

  “I worked in the garden.” Not a single weed had survived her thorough search. In need of distraction, she’d become lost in her endeavors. “Read.” Held a book more like. “You?”

  “Met with estate managers. Visited a friend. Did a little boxing.”

  “Did you get hurt?”

  “No, he went easy on me. Mostly we danced around each other. But I had a lot o
f energy to work off.”

  “I do hope you saved some for tonight.”

  “I saved a good deal for tonight.”

  The carriage drew to a stop. She raised the hood on her cloak just as the door opened. Rexton exited, then reached back to help her disembark. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  “I suppose your servants are discreet,” she said, as she glanced up at the massive manor.

  “They are.” He led her up the wide stone steps. The door opened. A footman who stood at attention nearby had obviously been awaiting their arrival.

  As she averted her eyes, she was grateful for the hood. She caught sight of the sweeping stairs, wished they didn’t make drawing in air so frightfully difficult. Now that the moment was upon her—

  She became aware of Rexton unfastening her cape, drawing it and the hood away from her, handing it over to the servant. Here no shadows hovered; light in the chandeliers allowed her to see him so clearly. The blue of his eyes, a strong jaw recently shaved if the smoothness of it was any indication. She licked her lips.

  “You’re nervous,” he said, his voice low.

  “It’s been a while.” A while since she’d been alone with a man for the purpose of intimacy. An even longer while since she’d wanted to be.

  “I’ve something to show you.”

  She dropped her gaze to his crotch. “I’m certain you do.”

  His deep laughter echoing through the foyer made her smile.

  “Are all Americans as blunt?” he asked.

  “Only those of us with notorious reputations.”

  “I like that you’re not a shy miss.”

  She was grateful he couldn’t see what not being so was costing her. She wanted this, wanted to be with him, but a part of her wanted to retreat, wanted to ask him not to go too quickly, to give her time to adjust to the notion she might be desirable.

  Again, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and began leading her down a hallway, not up the stairs as she’d expected. Paintings of horses dotted the walls.

  “You do love your horses,” she mused.

  “I do indeed. I find them to be gorgeous in their simplicity, noble in their endeavors. A horse will race his heart out for you. What of your parlor? Are those various representations of horses displayed there your doing?”

  “Yes. I admire them as well. I suppose we have that in common.”

  “We have a good deal more than that.”

  They reached a parlor or perhaps it was a lady’s library. A wall of shelves contained books and assorted vases. The chairs and sofa were covered in pastels that surprised her.

  “You favor pink?”

  “My mother had a hand in decorating this room. My tastes lean toward the dark. She wanted someplace to sit that wouldn’t leave her melancholy when she visited.”

  “I met your mother once. She was very kind.”

  “I find her so.”

  He led her to a set of double doors. After opening them, he escorted her into a garden. Roses and other blossoms long closed for the night scented the air. The glow from two lanterns revealed a blanket spread over the ground, a wicker basket, a bottle of wine, glasses, and plates.

  “We’re having a picnic?” she asked, the very last thing she’d expected.

  “I’m a firm believer that seduction begins before one nears a bedchamber.”

  She looked up at him. His mother wasn’t the only one who was kind. She’d deduced he wouldn’t make a good husband for Gina. Now she felt rather guilty about her assessment, worried she might have caused her sister to lose out on a lifetime of happiness with a man who might have appreciated her. “I may have judged you harshly, my lord.”

  “Because you didn’t think me suitable for your sister?”

  She nodded, hating that she’d been so obvious in her disregard for his attentions.

  “We’re not suited, Gina and I. I much prefer a woman who views herself worthy of a great deal more than pretty frocks and chocolates.”

  Two of the items Gina had claimed would make her happy.

  Drawing her in, he lowered his mouth to hers and took with a slow and steady insistence that curled her toes, melted her knees, turned the secretive place between her thighs into liquid desire. Did he really think after delivering a searing kiss that they were going to sit on a blanket, sip wine, and converse about the weather or the stars? Although she had to admit if she saw one arcing across the sky, she might very well find herself making a wish that somewhere in America she would find a man who would cause her to feel as this one did: treasured, adored, desired.

  He growled once before stepping back with a harsh curse directed at himself and his lack of restraint. She’d never let him know that his ability not to resist her stroked her ego, lifted her self-esteem. He grabbed her hand with an abruptness and lack of gentleness that spoke to the tension rampaging through him. She was awful to take such delight in it.

  “Let’s sit, shall we?”

  Let’s not hovered on the tip of her tongue. Part of her wanted to admit there was no reason for all this. That she was well and truly seduced already. That she was anxious to go to his bedchamber, to lie in his bed. Part of her craved the wooing that had been so absent from her marriage, wanted to savor these moments, knowing everything would change once he possessed her, once he obtained what he sought. She would be his in ways she feared, in ways he’d never comprehend or understand. There was a difference between men and women, in how they viewed such an intimate act. He could partake in it without involving his heart. She wasn’t certain she could. “Let’s,” she whispered, before stepping onto the blanket and lowering herself to the ground.

  He didn’t know why he was of a mind to woo her. They had an arrangement. He could have raced up the stairs, dragging her behind him, and she couldn’t have complained or objected. He could have tossed her onto the bed, lifted her skirts, and taken her and she couldn’t have faulted him. They had an agreement. They had terms.

  He hated everything about the reasons that had brought her here.

  But he was too selfish, wanted her too badly to send her away, to return to the original bargain and take the damn stallion for stud. She’d given herself to others, to her husband, to a damned footman, to some lucky sod or two at the Nightingale. She wasn’t pure or moralistic or particularly selective when it came to bedding. Yet, he wanted her to be all that—for him. He wanted to be all that for her.

  He set out the cheese, olives, and fruit. He poured their wine, raised his glass in a salute. “To a night neither of us will soon forget.”

  She lifted her glass, bowed her head, sipped. Her fragrance drowned out the blossoms that scented the air.

  “During our arrangement, you’re not to go to anyone else’s bed.”

  She jerked her gaze up to his, her eyes wide. He hadn’t meant to sound so commanding. But the thought of her going to anyone else after being with him turned his stomach, caused his skin to crawl, made him want to hit something.

  “I expect the same consideration from you,” she said tautly, equally as commanding.

  “Why would I want anyone else while I have you?”

  “I could prove a disappointment.”

  Tillie despised the silence stretching between them, taut and frayed, as though he were mulling over the real possibility that when all was said and done he wouldn’t find her to his liking. That sometimes it was better to possess the dream than to hold the reality. She wished it were afternoon, that they were wreathed by bright sunlight, so she could look more deeply into his eyes, could discern what he might be thinking. Finally, he shook his head, cupped her cheek with one large strong hand.

  “Not bloody likely.”

  Then his mouth was on hers and it was like there had been no end to the kiss he’d given her before they’d lowered themselves to the blanket, as though no time had passed since his lips had last glided so provocatively over hers. But time had passed between one kiss and the next. She tasted the wine mo
re strongly on his tongue, could feel the coolness of the night air on the nape of his neck as she clasped her hand around it. Could feel the tension radiating through his body as though he’d found no respite in the delay, in the conversation, as though he’d been torturing himself striving to give her a bit of civility when he was naught but barbarism and savagery, yearning for her with an intensity that she was rather certain had never been directed her way.

  She gloried in it. In the way he eased her down to the ground, the way he nibbled on her throat and bared shoulders before returning his mouth to hers with a feral growl that spoke of untamed passions. He called to the wildness in her, the unruly longings that she’d banked because her husband had declared any sort of enthusiasm or excitement as unseemly in a wife, more suited to a harlot.

  But tonight she didn’t care if she behaved as a doxie, if Rexton found her vulgar. Tonight was for her fantasies, needs, and wants to be fulfilled. And if he claimed her lacking, to hell with him. They could do away with their nightly trysts, but he would have to help with Gina or turn over Fair Vixen. She knew he would never give up his mare.

  So Gina’s future was safe, secure, no matter how tonight went, no matter how much Tillie writhed as Rexton’s hands skimmed over her, no matter how she whimpered wanting more from him, no matter how firmly she brazenly pressed her body against his and urged him to take her: here, now, on the blanket with the moon looking on—and any number of neighbors with a spyglass.

  “To hell with the seduction,” he rasped. “You seduced me the moment you strolled into the parlor and offered me whisky.”

  She’d offered it to him because she’d needed it for herself. When she’d seen him standing there, in his golden glory, so beautiful, so devastatingly masculine, she’d wanted to turn tail and run. The shock of her immediate attraction to him had caused her to tremble. The whisky had been for her, to calm her pounding heart, to silence the vixen residing within her skin who had begun whispering “Want!”