The Counterfeit Mistress

by Madeline Hunter

  He walked through the ivy and sat on the bench. She had used a blanket as her shawl. It wrapped her from neck to ankles.

  “You have no coat,” she said.

  “You have seen worse.” They might be there again, in his chamber, both in dishabille, he in a banyan and she naked beneath a blanket. He angled his head to see if the hem of her dress showed. A bit of white poked out.

  Side by side they looked into the night. The silence filled with messages that needed no words. A large loop of rope might have slid down around them and now it tightened, tightened, until he felt her presence more completely than if they touched.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “What are you?”

  “You know who I am. As for what—I am not a spy.”

  He wanted to believe that. With her right next to him and her delicate profile softly outlined by the moonlight, he almost did. She lied when it was convenient, however. She even admitted that she did.

  “What was it that you handed off to that man Garrett today?”

  She swung her foot up and down, slowly kicking through the end of the blanket. “Engravings. They are made in London, then I send them over through men like him.”

  “You pay to send engravings into France? That is an odd trade. No profit and all loss.”

  She laughed. “It is a peculiar business. I cannot deny that.” She turned her head and looked at him. “The engravings are to encourage others to investigate crimes against the people. This new order there was born in much blood, but it should not be lawless. France deserves that. Her people do too.”

  “Are you using those engravings to denounce the people?”

  “We trust the engravings might encourage others to investigate certain crimes, that is all.”

  He thought about the engravings in his chambers, the ones he had rescued in the alley.

  “It could be dangerous,” he said. “For the engraver and printer, and for you.”

  “Not too much.”

  “It almost got you killed in an alley, I think.” He knew for certain now that those men would have killed her. Now he had a reason why. If she were telling the truth.

  Right now he believed her. In the morning, when her scent did not fill his head and his blood did not burn and the exquisite torture of lust did not preoccupy his body and soul, he might well conclude this had been one more lie, and one more move in a long game played by an expert agent.

  “You do not have to believe me,” she said, hearing his thoughts somehow. “Too much is made of the need for trust in friendships. We can never really know who and what another person is. You do not dissemble at all, and yet much of who you are is a mystery to others.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “It is true.”

  The notion was bizarre. Perhaps she thought it flattered him, much as she had found a way to flatter young Angus.

  “For example,” she said. “A great mystery to me is why you have been sitting here so long and have not even tried to kiss me a single time. Do you think you would dishonor yourself? Dishonor me?”

  “Nothing so noble as that.” Now who was lying? And yet, with her so close that he could hear her breathe, honor retreated as a consideration. “I am not interested in kissing you a single time. I contemplate far more than that.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “You cannot blame me. It was you who put the idea in my head.”

  She laughed quietly. “Now you are the one who lies. The idea was in your head before we ever spoke. It has been in your head, and elsewhere, for months.”

  “You think so, do you?”

  “Oui, m’sieur. A woman knows these things.” She leaned toward him until her large eyes looked directly into his. “It is good, perhaps, that you have chosen to not be so noble. I will not think that I corrupt a saint when I do this now.” She kissed him lightly. “Or this.” She laid her hand on his face and kissed him again.

  The first kiss unlocked the restraints on his desire. The second one threw the door wide.

  Raw and real and determined, the want owned him then. He trusted that she invited more than kisses. If she denied him now, he would go insane.

  He held her face in his hands and kissed hard, imagining her body vividly, claiming, owning her mouth the way he would do the rest of her. She did not resist at all, but lifted her face in offering, and sighed on the musical gasps she made.

  Then her hands were on him, on his chest, under his shirt. She clumsily unbuttoned it while they kissed, her slender fingers finding their way. When it gaped open she broke the kiss and laid her lips on his chest and made hot paths of nips and licks.

  She looked up and her warm breath flowed over him and into him.

  “You are cold now,” she said. “Share this.” She opened the blanket and embraced him with it.

  He felt no cold. He never would again. He joined her within the blanket anyway, so he could feel her body near his, and caress her through the thin cloth of her dress. His fingers sensed no stays beneath the dress. No anything. He kissed her again, on the mouth and neck, on the soft skin of her chest, while he teased himself by slowly unlacing the front of her dress.

  He felt too good. Strong and firm and confident, he handled her like the man he was, a man not given to false flatteries or pretty words, a man born for command and decision. He made her feel young and small and fragile and safe. So safe. She yearned to stay forever in the shelter of his body and desire.

  Slowly, slowly he unlaced her dress. She had to grit her teeth against what it did to her. Her breasts swelled against the fabric, waiting. She swallowed her cries of frustration.

  Done, finally. The rest of the fastenings confounded him, so he did not bother with them. He pushed the dress down, off her shoulders and arms so she was naked to the waist. An unexpectedly gentle touch glossed over her. Her tips had turned hard and that soft touch sent a sharp pleasure down her body that made her gasp. His head dipped. He kissed the swell, the softness, then shocked the tip again and again. Hard arms lifted and swung her onto his lap so his mouth had better purchase. His hand caressed one breast while his teeth and tongue tortured the other. She held his head to her and smothered her whimpers against his hair.

  She could hardly bear the sensations. They filled her until her hold on herself strained. Delicious and horrible and sweet and cruel, the pleasure awed her but left her hungry with a compelling need that grew and grew until it conquered even the pleasure itself. Tipping into abandon, she squirmed against his thighs to relieve the vacant pulse between her legs. She reached down between their bodies and closed her hand on the hard bulge in his breeches pressing her leg.

  He lifted her to her feet and pushed the dress down to her feet until she stood naked in front of him. His eyes blazed while he slid his fingertips all over her and watched his hands move. Along her shoulders and down her arms, over her stomach and to her thighs. Lightly, surely, to that vacant ache. She clutched his shoulders while he stroked. He maddened her worse by sucking on her breast. She wept then. Her body did and her essence too, as desperate pleasure unhinged her mind.

  He lifted the blanket and it flew around her and settled on her shoulders like a cape. Firm rough hands circled her waist and he buried his face against her body as if he sought to inhale her essence.

  “What do you want, Marielle? Tell me.”

  She took hold of his head and kissed his mouth as hard as she could, so he would know.

  “Say it. Tell me what you want.”

  “You. Now.”

  “Then come here.” He drew her forward, back onto his lap, facing him, so that her knees flanked his hips. He loosened his garments and moved her hips closer.

  She gasped when she felt him pressing her. Cried out at the hardness both satisfying her need and bruising her body. He stopped, then moved more slowly when he pressed further. He stretched her. Somehow her bod
y accommodated him. She felt him in her in ways she had not thought possible. For a moment the need subsided.

  Then he moved. Holding her hips firmly, he withdrew and entered again. And again, and again. The vacancy returned, and the pulse and the need. It all unfolded inside her, down where they joined. Wanting and demanding and crying again. It grew and grew and she moved too, urging more, smiling when he took less care. He thrust deeply and hard and she met him each time and swiveled her hips to beg for yet more.

  He pounded into her in the end. He held her body down to his while the consummation tremors shuddered through him.

  She collapsed in his arms, against his chest, still joined, still feeling him. He tucked the blanket around her closer and silently held her in the sweet night.

  “We must go back inside now.”

  His words startled her. She had fallen asleep in his embrace. Perhaps he had too.

  “It will be dawn soon.” He lifted her to her feet and held her there until her limbs unstiffened. He grabbed her dress and held it so she could step into it.

  They dressed, such as the dressing went. He made sure she wrapped the blanket snugly. “Dawn’s chill is the worst.”

  Together they walked back through the garden. Far in the east the first gray light began to seep through the dark.

  No one stood at the door. “I wonder where he went,” she said.

  “I sent him to bed.”

  She looked at him. “You knew when you came out that you intended to seduce me. That is why you sent him away.”

  He walked on, guiding her through the house to the stairs. He nodded, not one bit chagrined by her accusation. “Out there or in here. Either way, I knew I did not need guards at the doors, because I would be with you.” He glanced over. “You were warned not to wander through the house and to stay in your chamber.”

  “I thought you said that because you were concerned I would steal something.”

  “You were wrong.”

  He appeared pleased with himself. Quite content. She debated whether to broach her need to return to London now, or in the morning. There was much to recommend asking a favor when a man had just taken his pleasure. He would find it very calculating, however. Much more than in reality any part of the night had been.

  On the level with her chamber he pointed to large double doors as they passed. “My chambers are in there. You may visit whenever you like.”

  How thoughtful. Lord Kendale was not such a hard man it seemed. He did not shy away from the intimacy now between them. Pleased by his romantic gesture, she kissed him.

  At her door he took his leave of her. She smiled up at him. “You may visit when you like too.”

  “That is generous of you, but I cannot.”

  “I can go there, but you cannot come here? I do not understand.”

  He rested his fingertips on her lips and looked in her eyes. “You are my prisoner. If I came to this door, you might feel an obligation. I am not that kind of man.”

  His prisoner. Still.

  “You were that kind of man tonight. You even came out into the garden intending to be.”

  “I intended to have you. I did not intend to impose on you or obligate you.”

  “You are walking some very fine lines.”

  “You have no idea just how fine the lines with you have been, Marielle. As for tonight—you kissed me, remember? You said you wanted me.”

  Tell me what you want.

  Damn him. Even at the height of passion he had remembered to trick her into all but begging for him first. His notions of honor had not been violated. One of them would sleep the slumber of the righteous.

  She opened the door, entered, and slammed it shut on him. What kind of a man was he, to let her give herself to him like that, and still speak of her as a prisoner? He was not supposed to be thinking like a gaoler now. He was supposed to be wet clay in her hands.

  Chapter 12

  Mr. Pottsward arrived just after noon the next day. He ceremoniously set a wrapped bundle on the divan in the dressing room. “Her woman put this together for me. I was not present. I cannot vouch for what it contains.”

  Packages from Marielle’s servant were all fine and good, but more important matters needed to be settled first. “Did you see the solicitor about the property I wrote to you about?”

  “I did. He assured me that the deed will be ready for signing when you next come to town. He advised against buying a pleasure craft unless you intend to use it on the river, however. Anything of more substance is in danger of being requisitioned by the naval service.”

  “Spoken like a lawyer. They never account for fun. One wonders if they were ever children.”

  “He also itemized the costs of maintaining such a vessel. On which point, I feel I must mention that we really do not have room for a private navy, sir. I toured the cellars and attics before coming here, and as it is—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll not have sailors here. The lads are eager to try their hands at it themselves. How hard can it be?”

  “No harder than hitting a target dead-on with a musket from two hundred paces, I suspect.”

  Kendale laughed. Mr. Pottsward was just being Pottsward. He turned his attention to the package. That old woman would not tuck a pistol in there, would she? He picked it up and gave it a few squeezes.

  “They are not pleased at that house,” Pottsward reported while he set about hanging clothes strewn about. “Those women, I mean. Odd place, sir. Not a man in sight. Not natural, if you ask me.”

  “I suppose they find men inconvenient in some way.”

  “I cannot imagine what way that would be. Any woman with sense would want a man around for protection if nothing else. They need not marry if they have radical notions on that subject. It need only be a servant, just so the world knows they are not vulnerable.”

  “I do not think they are without any protection.” Indeed, Marielle and Dominique and the women who worked there had enjoyed some of the best protection to be had. That of agents of the Home Office. That of Lord Kendale and his men.

  She claimed she was not a spy. If not, why had she not taken steps to remove the suspicions? Why allow them to stand all this time? Marielle had not done anything to kill the rumors. She had realized he followed her and never confronted him but allowed it to continue.

  Perhaps she did like having men around for the protection they afforded. That attack on her, and the intrusion in her house, suggested she needed protection from something.

  Then again, perhaps she could not kill the rumors because they were true. The prints she sent to France might contain information, hidden in ways only her allies would decipher. The engraver might be part of her network.

  He should not forget that possibility. He must not allow last night to addle his brain. The tendency to make excuses for her had already led him to some bad judgments. He would have to be vigilant in the future, especially now that he had succumbed to his hunger for her.

  He picked up the bundle and walked down to her chamber door. She opened it and looked at him with a low-lidded expression that did not bode well for the day. He handed over the parcel, thinking it would be wise for her to change into another dress. He could not see this one without remembering it sliding down her body to reveal her nakedness.

  “My valet will go to the village and see about bringing a woman here to serve you.” He said it on impulse, so the door would not close too quickly.

  “That is a lot of trouble for what will only be a few days. I can do for myself a short while. Who knows what disruption yet another woman would wreck on this house. I am not sure your men would know how to behave.”

  “They would behave with the discipline of soldiers.”

  “I have seen what the discipline of soldiers is worth. Better if you leave the village women in their homes.” She looked down at the bund
le. “How long will I be here? Until you decide what to do with me, you said. How long will that be? I have a business in London. Those women depend on me.”

  “A few days.” Perhaps a week. Maybe longer. He would know soon. “You do not have to remain here during the day. You can go on the grounds or elsewhere in the house.”

  “You are no longer concerned that I will run away?”

  “I think you know that I would find you before you got far, so you will not bother to try.”

  A challenge entered her eyes. A small smile played on her lips. She nodded in agreement while she slowly closed the door.

  Late that afternoon a commotion entered the house. It began in the drive and rolled through the door. Men’s voices cascaded up the stairs.

  Marielle left her chamber and listened. Some of Kendale’s men had returned from some journey. She would not have thought this estate needed more servants. How many did he maintain?

  Angus came running up the stairs. He stopped when he saw her, made a quick bow, then turned and ran to Kendale’s chambers. Then Angus ran back and flew down the stairs.

  Kendale emerged. He noticed her while he strode to the stairs. He paused, his hand on the balustrade and one boot already descending.

  “Supper will be brought to you,” he said. “You should make yourself scarce this evening.”

  She did not mind obeying. She liked her chamber. Old Pete brought up food late in the evening and set in on the table she had placed near the window. Noise from below made its way in when she opened it.

  “It sounds like a party,” she said.

  “It is just the lads having some beer.”

  “How many lads live here? A good number from the sounds.”

  Old Pete rubbed his chin while he thought. “Hard to say. Here proper, there’s maybe two dozen. Then there’s the ones who come by like today. Maybe another dozen of them? Only milord knows the total, I guess.”

  “Why would there be servants who only come by on occasion? What use are they if they are not here?”

  “Oh, you want to know how many servants there are. Well, now, there’s me and the cook and Mr. Pottsward and—”