Mistress of Melody

by Anthea Lawson

  Almost, she lost her nerve. It would be easy to blow out the candle, creep back down the hall, and climb into bed next to Louisa. No one would ever know.

  Yet she feared she would regret that choice for the rest of her life. Already, she had too much to be sorry for.

  The flame flickered, and Morgan’s door opened. He stood there barefoot, his shirt half unbuttoned and untucked from his trousers. Without a word, he took her hand and drew her into his sitting room.

  Neither of them spoke until they gained his bedroom. Morgan shut the door, then took her candle and set it on the bedside table, beside the amber-shaded lamp.

  “You came,” he said.

  “And you did not turn me away.”

  His eyes darkened with desire as he regarded her. “I would not make that mistake again.”

  “I was not certain…”

  “Because I was a beast to you earlier? My apologies, Jessa.” His expression was set, though she suspected it was more from annoyance at himself than her. “I could not bear the thought of you meeting another man beneath my roof.”

  His words sent a thrill through her. Had Morgan truly been consumed with jealousy?

  “You are the only one I want,” she said. It was shockingly forthright, but then, she was no lady of the ton, to cover her meaning with sugar and lace.

  He made a low sound in his throat. Two strides forward, and he caught her up in his embrace, his firm lips descending to cover hers. Jessa leaned into him, her senses flaring. All doubt fled. This was right—to be held in his arms, to breathe one another’s breath, to taste and tangle and tempt, their bodies pressed tightly together.

  She slid her hands up beneath his shirt, reveling in the feel of the muscled planes of his chest, the light dusting of hair that tickled her fingertips. For his part, his hands roved over her back and hips, the silk gliding beneath his touch.

  Heat flared in the wake of his touch, pooled in the center of her body. He parted the robe, and it slid off her shoulders with a soft hushing sound.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said.

  Her face warmed at his words—but this was no time for modesty. Not tonight. Mirroring his action, she pushed his shirt down his arms. Then, with a brief hesitation, she reached for his trousers. She could not help noticing the bulge there, and anxiety flitted through her.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I promise to be gentle.”

  “What if I don’t want gentleness?” She leaned forward and nipped at his shoulder.

  He caught her to him, skin on skin.

  “Then I will do my best not to hurt you.”

  He helped her undo the flap of his trousers. They fell to the floor, and his manhood pressed up from his drawers. She untied the string, and the cloth fell away, revealing him.

  His shaft was strong and straight, rising from a cluster of golden hair between his legs. She did not ask if she might touch him, but reached to stroke one finger up its length.

  “You may use more force than that,” he said. “It’s not breakable.”

  “If you insist.” She wrapped her hand about him, the skin hot and satiny under her palm.

  He let out a low hiss, and she closed her hand around him even more. A bead of moisture lay at the top of the shaft, and she brushed her thumb over it, curious to feel its slickness. Then she brought her finger to her mouth and tasted it. Salty, like the sea.

  “You’ll undo me,” he said, his breathing ragged.

  “Because I like the taste of you?”

  “And I am starving for you.”

  He took her mouth again, plundering the moist hollow with his tongue. The hardness of his shaft lay against her thigh. She could not quite imagine how he would fit inside her. His hand moved to pluck at her breast, the touch sending tingles down her spine and stomach.

  Slowly, he walked backward, drawing her with him until they were at the edge of the bed. She was glad, for her knees were weak with pleasure.

  “Sit,” he said. “Yes, just on the edge.”

  He gently spread her legs, making a place for himself to kneel. His head was at a level with her breasts. Giving her a heated look, he leaned forward and drew his tongue over one taut nipple.

  She gasped at the sensation, nearly dizzy as he closed his mouth about the peak. His fingers played with her other nipple, and she had to close her eyes at the sharp, delicious sensation. The juncture of her legs was throbbing now, her pulse seeming to come from that place and resonate through her entire body.

  Morgan left her breasts and trailed kisses lower, to her stomach and waist. Then lower still.

  Half of her wanted to protest, but the other half was wound tight with anticipation. She was so very hot between her legs. Did he intend to cool her with his mouth?

  It seemed so, for he lifted her ankles and set her feet on the bedrail. Her thighs parted even more, until her most private place was revealed to his sight. To his touch. To his tongue.

  She gasped and nearly bucked at the sensation, but quickly dissolved into pleasure. Oh, heavens. She’d no idea.

  A moan escaped her, and she let her head fall back, giving herself up to the desire building between her legs. It was urgent, almost painful. She shook, and he grasped her hips, his mouth moving eagerly against her.

  Lightning struck, a flash that sizzled through her entire body. She cried out at the intensity and fell back on the bed. Aftershocks like thunder pulsed through her. One. Two. Three.

  She drew in a long, wavering breath.

  “Morgan. What have you done to me?”

  He came to lie beside her, his eyes dark with need, with amusement.

  “What you deserve, my lovely Gypsy girl. Have you never touched yourself, seeking pleasure?”

  She shook her head at the notion.

  “Not even once?” he asked.

  “Perhaps… once, while swimming in a fast stream with the other Rom children. I found a place where the current pushed curiously against me. I stood there for a time, but it only remained a tingling sensation. Nothing like this.”

  “Then I am happy to further your education.”

  “Pray, educate me further.” She glanced at the naked, magnificent length of his body.

  He rose to his knees and pushed the bedcovers aside, and she scooted into the middle of the bed.

  “One moment.” He reached over to the bedside table, and retrieved a curious length of material that somewhat resembled a stocking.

  Seeing the question in her eyes, he gave her a half smile.

  “It’s a skin,” he said, drawing it over his rigid shaft. “It helps prevent conception.”

  “A useful device,” she said.

  He tied the ribbon at the base of the skin, then gave her a look filled with intense need. Jessa caught her breath at the fire in his eyes.

  The bed gave slightly under his weight as he came over her and slowly lowered himself. His shaft nestled between her legs, and the feel of him pressing against her made her nearly swoon. She was grateful to be already lying down, with all that hot, hard maleness touching every inch of her.

  He bent his head and kissed her, and she slid her hands up over his muscled shoulders. His hips moved against hers, and she parted her thighs. The tip of him prodded against her.

  “Breathe,” he said.

  Taking his member in one hand, he guided himself to her entrance and pushed slowly, slowly in.

  Her body tightened, and she made herself relax. Then he began stroking her down there with his other hand, and it was easy to release the fear. She wanted this. Wanted him. Push, then stroke. Tighten, then ease. She felt stretched, but not beyond bearing, as he inched his way inside.

  At last, their hips touched, and Morgan lowered himself over her again.

  “All right?” he asked.

  She nodded, experimentally wiggling her hips. His expression clenched, and she stopped.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” His voice was tight. “I do want to last for more than a
minute, however.”

  “Is this… all?” Compared to the glory he had shown her before, she found the act itself curiously uninspiring.

  He let out a short laugh. “No. Just, wait a moment. In the meantime…”

  His mouth touched hers, nibbling softly. Then his tongue, playfully licking at her lips. She smiled and pulled him down over her, darting her tongue into his mouth. Slowly, she became aware that he was moving over her, his shaft pulling out a few inches, then working back in. Out. In.

  At first, her body did not quite know how to accommodate the motion. She drew her legs up and tilted her hips, and that seemed to help. Morgan began to thrust faster. Heat spiraled up, winding about her belly, her breasts, sparking into her brain.

  Faster.

  She clutched his shoulders, now lightly sheened with sweat, and tried to match her body to his. Forward and back. Smoke, then embers and then…

  “Ahh,” she gasped, as she caught fire.

  He plunged into her twice more, then stopped. The muscles in his neck were rigid and she could feel him shuddering over her in his own pleasure.

  Flames licked about them both, and her heartbeat matched his, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. Mated.

  The candle flickered, sending light and shadows to dance over Morgan’s chest. He held her gaze, and she felt as though she glimpsed his soul.

  I love you.

  The emotion shivered over her. She could never say it, but her pulse beat out the words. Instead, she smiled at him.

  He let out a long, shuddering breath and levered himself to the side.

  “I am sorry if I hurt you,” he said.

  “It did not hurt.”

  “Still, there might be blood.”

  She felt the moisture between her thighs, then lifted her hand. “Perhaps a little.”

  “Here.” He strode to the washbasin and returned with a dampened towel.

  While she cleaned herself, he removed the skin and did the same. How messy lovemaking was, though she supposed the blood was only for the first time.

  “Should I go?” she asked, feeling strangely lonely.

  “No. Stay.”

  He bent and kissed her on the lips, long and lingering, then climbed back into the bed and drew the covers over them. His body was warm as he pulled her tightly against him, exciting and comforting at the same time. Jessa let out a contented sigh.

  It was done. She was no longer a maid, and she was suddenly, fiercely glad of it. She had claimed Morgan as much as he had claimed her. They had shared their bodies so deeply, how could they not be affected?

  “Sleep a little,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I will wake you before the servants are stirring, to return to your room.”

  She was still thirsty for the touch of him, so she did not protest, merely snuggled back into his embrace and closed her eyes. At the soft edge of sleep, she thought she heard him murmur her name.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  One must wonder at the behavior of certain gentlemen who have expressed an interest in marriage, yet seem reluctant to come to the point. Ladies, under such circumstances, remind your suitors that they would be wise to close the trap, ’ere their catch escapes!

  -Tilly’s Mayfair Tattler

  Jessa slept late the next morning since, for once, Louisa was careful not to rouse her. She woke smiling, and stretched, reveling in the luxurious softness of the sheets. Almost, she laughed aloud. She felt transformed and yet, in a curious contradiction, somehow more herself than ever.

  And hungry, as well. Her stomach grumbled, and she rolled out of bed, dressed, and went in search of breakfast.

  The service was cleared away, but Betts promised to bring her a plate of sausages, a crumpet, and a cup of tea.

  “I’ll be in the drawing room,” Jessa told the maid.

  She could not express her emotions to anyone. Except Morgan, and then only in the privacy of the night. But she could play the feelings surging through her, give them voice with her violin. Quickly, she unpacked her instrument and ran through her warm up exercises.

  Betts came in with her breakfast, and Jessa ate, then brushed the crumbs from her hands and resumed playing. The music danced and sang, full of happy leaps and trills. Bright sunshine streamed in through the windows, picking out the glints of gold embroidery in the scarlet cushions and shining off the polished tabletop.

  It was foolish, this giddiness—but she could not help it. Despite the soreness between her legs, she felt amazingly alive, her entire body awake. No regrets. And no lingering worries that she might bear a child, since Morgan had considered the risks ahead of time.

  She slowed the tune, the notes growing wistful. Not that she did not want a child. Or several. But to bring Morgan’s bastard into the world would be a terrible thing for all of them. It would destroy the reputation he had worked so hard to restore. It would ruin her, of course, and the child would suffer the ache of abandonment. An ache she knew all too well.

  When she was nine, her father had decided he could no longer live penned between four walls. He’d left, and taken half her heart and most of the happiness in the world with him.

  Yes, he would fetch her in the summers, and for three glorious months she’d live with him among the Rom. The pain of missing her mother and Louisa was greatly eased by the adventures of traveling from town to town, the freedom to run barefoot and not brush her hair for weeks on end.

  Even though the clan was often met with distrust, and sometimes outright hatred, she was sheltered from it. The Rom world was a place apart, full of mystery and laughter, color and music.

  Then the rain would come, and the darkening days, and her father would take her home to the shabby Oxford neighborhood. Hot tears ran, bitter, down her face every time she stepped through the door of their dingy two-room rental. But however much she pleaded to go with him, he left her there.

  “Your mother needs you,” he said. “I will come back again. I always do.”

  And so she tatted lace to help with their meager living, and later, played her violin on the streets for coin during festivals and holidays.

  True to his word, her father would make an appearance every now and then, promising to return for her in the spring.

  With a deep breath, Jessa set her violin down. This melancholy turn had led her fingers into sad, winding tunes that she had no heart for.

  “Miss?” Betts rapped at the door, then came into the room. “A message for you.”

  The maid held out a folded paper. Perhaps it was a correspondence from Mr. Widmere. Her nerves leaped, but it was far too soon to hear from him. He had not even left London yet.

  “Who sent it?”

  “A boy delivered it to the servants’ entrance, just now.” Betts gave her the note, along with a narrow-eyed look. “You’re not seeing another gentleman on the sly, miss?”

  “Of course not. How could you think such a thing?”

  The maid had the grace to look abashed. “Just wanting to make sure. The earl’s rather partial to you—we all know it.”

  “Yes.” Jessa’s cheeks heated.

  She had no doubt the servants were aware of everything that transpired beneath the roof of Trevethwick House. Hopefully, their loyalty to the earl would keep them discreet.

  The paper was closed with a clot of red sealing wax. Jessa picked at it with her nail until the paper parted from the wax. She unfolded the note and read, her breath tightening with every word.

  Miss Lovell,

  Your benefactor is not the gentleman you think him. Read the letters in his study from a Miss Abigail Smith if you do not believe me.

  Return to Mr. Burke in the next twenty-four hours and he will not punish you for leaving.

  -A concerned party

  No. She stared at the note, heart thumping in her chest.

  Morgan told her he had nothing hidden in his past. Whoever sent this note—and certainly it was Mr. Burke—must surely be mistaken.

  “Bad news, miss?” Betts as
ked.

  Jessa swallowed and hastily folded the paper in half. “An old acquaintance of mine has taken ill.”

  “That’s a pity. Can I bring you more tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  As soon as the maid left the room, Jessa sank down on one of the chairs, her thoughts careening.

  She should show Morgan the note and ask him directly what Mr. Burke meant. But… what if Morgan had lied to her? What would keep him from doing so again? Even though they had shared their bodies, she did not know what was in his mind. And the Earl of Silverton was adept at hiding his thoughts.

  She doubted his transgressions were all that terrible. Despite the fact that her guardian thought that whatever she learned would send her fleeing back to him.

  Betts returned with a steaming cup of tea, and Jessa took it gratefully.

  “Is the earl at home today?” she asked.

  “No.” Betts made a face. “He went to pay a very special visit, or so I hear.”

  Jessa’s ribs squeezed in another notch. “Not… to Lady Anne?”

  “Aye.” Betts nodded. “He took an enormous bouquet of flowers. Red roses, and jasmine blossoms from the conservatory. Reckon we know well enough what that means.”

  “Yes.” Her mouth dry as parchment, Jessa took a hasty sip of her tea, scalding her tongue. “It means he is going to propose marriage to her.”

  Sorrow, equally mixed with hot rage, pushed up from her chest. This was her reward for giving herself, body and heart, to the Earl of Silverton. She was such a besotted idiot.

  Betts gave her a sympathetic look. “Not as if it’s unexpected. He did wait rather a long while, too.”

  Long enough to seduce Jessa.

  Had taking her to his bed been the final act that propelled him toward Lady Anne? Jessa suspected Morgan’s sense of honor had been strained nearly to the breaking point by their liaison. Perhaps he thought he would repair it by rushing off to make Lady Anne his betrothed.

  Not that Jessa had any sort of a future with him—but she had hoped for a little more time. She blinked back the tears threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes.