A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2) (11 page)

“How dare you ignore my question?” She heard
the icy, imperious tone of her own voice.

She’d heard that tone before.

In Winterton’s voice.

She was his daughter. She did see his traits
from time to time. And this seemed like the situation for her to take a firm
line with her lover.

If you loved someone, you didn’t allow them
to be less than they ought to be, right?

Still her heart was thundering in her ears.

Only when Adrian had finished tying his
cravat, did he turn back to her. “I understand that you say what you say, in
that disrespectful tone, because you are driven by concern for my son.” He
paused and pursed his lips, as though trying very hard to control his own
rising ire. “I thank you for that.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling
her face flame with the intensity of her emotions. “But you won’t consider
bringing him back home with you?”

He stared at her, all but glowering at her.
“I keep late hours and I live an inconsistent home life. That’s not something
that can give a small boy the security he needs. And I have no wife to give him
the softness and nurturing a child ought to have.”

“You could nurture him yourself, if only you
would. I saw you do so at Applewaite. You choose not to. All your reasons are
merely excuses.”

A stricken expression flickered across his
face. “Miranda,” he said, in a hard, censuring tone, “how can you say such
things to me?” His expression hardened again. “How could you ever believe such
things of me?”

He collected his coat and boots and strode
from the bedchamber.

She was too heart-sore to follow after him.

Chapter
Eight

The piece of cake on a white china plate
painted with blue roses and embellished with gold blurred. Adrian closed his
eyes and resisted the urge to rub them. A slight headache had begun to throb
between his temples and he also had to resist the urge to massage his neck.
Hushed laughter and polite chatter filled the dining chamber. His heart beat
surged as a wave of panic hit him.

What day was it?

Where should he be right now?

He opened one eye and glanced over to the
clock on the mantle.

Oh, yes… right. Relief washed over him.

Only six in the evening.

Wednesday.

He suppressed a yawn. He had been awake the
entire night before, with Miranda’s words going round and round in his mind.

She didn’t understand.

He did everything he did for all of them.

He’d rather be with her now, so that he
could try and better explain himself. Instead, he had come here to pay respects
at this gathering at his second cousin, the Earl of Ruel’s house in Mayfair.
After this, he would make the rounds at the card tables in all the usual
places.

He didn’t want to. Worry for Davey consumed
him. The boy had been so pale, with dark circles under his eyes.

But he must discipline himself and do what
was necessary for Davey and Brentwood’s future.

He opened his eyes and turned to his side
and let his gaze rest on the Countess of Ruel. Anne’s dark blue eyes sparkled
with happiness.

It was the Countess’ birthday and this was a
small gathering limited to family and close friends only for the lady was
visibly with child.

The candlelight caught the blue lights in
her black-as-ebony hair glisten and made her olive skin glow with extraordinary
radiance as she shared a laugh with Rebecca, Lady Drake. Some jest at Lord
Ruel’s expense. Adrian had not caught all of the details.

It was most surprising—the close friendship
that had developed between the two ladies, for Lady Drake had once been Lord
Ruel’s long-term mistress.

God, how he had once envied Jon’s possession
of her, for Rebecca had the soft features and gentle, meek manner Adrian prized
in a woman.

Or at least the gentle, meek nature he had
once thought he’d prized in a woman.

Lady Drake was only beginning to show her
pregnancy and she was here alone.

I will not have him near my countess and
children.

Jon’s once spoken words echoed in Adrian’s
memory, clipped with disdain and an undeniable note of protectiveness.

Protectiveness that was well deserved?

Perhaps.

The man exuded mystery and danger.

There was a reason that he had been
whisperingly recommended to Adrian to take care the problem of Winterton.

Certainly, it was no secret that the
enigmatic Baron Drake wasn’t welcome at Lloyd House.

In fact, the only other men besides himself
and the earl, was their cousin Mr. Charles Sutherland.

Jon had asked Adrian to stay a little longer
and share a drink in his office. Having once been an officer in the Dragoons,
Jon had retained a sense of being entitled and duty-bound to mold and shape the
destiny of those he deemed under his responsibility.

Adrian, being a younger cousin, as well as
fatherless, put him squarely into that category.

Adrian sat in Jon’s study, letting his gaze
roam slowly over the familiar dark wood and green painted décor, waiting for
the lectures and unsolicited advice to begin. However, he was bound by moral
and familial obligation to indulge the older man.

He owed Jon that much respect.

For several years during his adolescence,
Adrian had looked to Ruel more as an uncle than a cousin and benefited from his
well-thought and freely given advice and at times, his generous financial help.

Adrian could certainly be a little patient
now.

In a nearby chair, his cousin Charlie
scoffed.

The sharp sound cut through Adrian’s musings
and he looked up.

Charlie frowned, his attention focused on
the glass of pale amber fluid that Ruel held. “Is that Scotch...
watered
?”

An amiable expression softened Jon’s rugged
features. “When the children are in residence, I allow myself only one
full-strength brandy a day, and that I save for right before bedtime.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “That’s quite the
self-denial.”

“I can’t have my chits seeing me wandering
about the corridors, drunk as a sot, can I?” Jon said with a slight grin. Yet,
his eyes were serious and focused on Adrian.

Uneasiness rippled down Adrian’s back.

Jon gripped then back of the chair nearest
him then stared down at Adrian, with a scowl that was strangely an expression
of concern. “You don’t look well.”

“Too many late-nights, followed by too many
long, wakeful mornings spent in Chelsea,” Charlie was quick to supply.

“Ah, that explains it.” A slight smile
twisted Jon’s thin mouth. “Miss Miranda Jones.”

Adrian cut Charlie a glower. However, there
was no need for Adrian to respond to Jon and the older man’s feigned surprise
was an insult to his intelligence. Everyone shared gossip. Every gentleman knew
who the choicest courtesans were and who patronized them.

Adrian flinched inside at that word.

Patronize.

That was what others would surely call what
he did with Miranda. He patronized her at her home and paid handsomely for the
pleasure of her favors.

What he shared with her was far more
profound than that!

Yet, what else could they ever be to each
other besides a mistress and her protector?

“She quite the high-flier.”

Jon’s words, so carelessly spoken, settled
over Adrian’s already inflamed sensibilities, each word like a nettle,
stinging.

“Expensive goods,” Charlie said, with a
grin.

Adrian flashed Charlie a death glare this
time. “Shut your mouth.”

Charlie paled then instantly glanced down at
the table, becoming suddenly quite interested in his drink.

“Adrian, I am counting on your vote.” Jon
tapped his fingers on the narrow strip of glossy wood. “I need every Whig
vote.”

“I shall be able to vote,” Adrian replied,
stiffly.

Jon’s gaze narrowed speculatively, a hint of
an amused grin played about his mouth. “You look like a man on the verge of a
collapse.”

Indignation burned through Adrian. He
scowled. “Will you have the decency to mind your own business?”

“I don’t want to be indelicate—” Jon began.

Adrian shot him a glower. “Then don’t.”

There were certain trespasses one would only
allow family. Gratitude for that earlier championship and support was the only
thing that kept Adrian from bolting to his feet and exiting the chamber.

“Leave us, Sutherland,” Jon said.

It wasn’t within Charlie’s ability to resist
the command in the older man’s tone. He made to rise.

Adrian’s hand shot out and grasped his
cousin’s arm. “Charlie is welcomed to stay.”

Jon’s grin broadened even as the displeasure
shown in his eyes. “Very well.” He sat opposite Adrian. Those vivid blue eyes
bore into him. “I need every Whig vote.”

Adrian returned his gaze steadily. “I’ve
told you. I shall be present and able to vote.”

Jon studied him for a moment. “You’re
working yourself too hard.”

“This is the season for easy winnings. Luck
has been with me.” Adrian allowed a false grin. “And I’d prefer to strike while
luck is on my side.”

“You’ve been winning and spending an
alarming amount.”

“It is my own business.”

Jon raised his brows. “What happens when
your luck turns?”

“I’ll worry about that when it happens.”

Jon frowned. “It is not like you to be so
feckless about money.”

Feckless.

The word burned into Adrian.

Accusing him.

A soft laugh from Charlie did little to ease
the building tension in the air. The sound held a false ring. “I think I shall
go and find some less serious company.”

Charlie pushed his chair back and stood,
waiting with an uneasy expression for either man to reply.

Feckless.

The word burned into his mind.

How dare Jon accuse anyone of being
feckless? The man had come home from the Dragoons and spent years amusing
himself before marrying and throwing himself body and soul into his political
career.

The study clicked softly with Charlie’s
hasty exit.

Adrian narrowed his gaze. “You never stinted
with Mrs. Howland.”

Just the mention of that lady brought with
it whole volumes of self-indulgence and vice on the part of his older cousin. A
phase of his life spent solely on the pursuit of material and sensual
pleasures.

Only the tiniest widening of Jon’s eyes
betrayed the older man’s surprise to be faced with something so incriminatingly
personal.

Yet, since the conversation was already
personal…

Jon tapped the table briefly. “Mrs. Howland
was never a demanding mistress. Her needs and even her wants were never
extravagant.” Jon busied himself with extracting an elegant case from his
pocket and procuring himself a cigar.

He handed the case to Adrian.

Adrian held up a hand and shook his head.
Jon had acquired a taste for cigars during his time spent in America. Adrian
had never taken up such habits before and had no desire to do so now, or ever.

Jon arose to go and light it. He stood at
the hearth, drawing on it for a few moments. Then his deep voice broke the
silence. “Adrian, I need you now more than ever.”

“You have my vote.” Adrian compressed his
lips and struggled to keep the rising ire from his voice. “How many times must
I pledge it to you?”

“I need you for more than your vote.”

Dread crept through Adrian’s gut. “I can’t
pledge more than my vote.”

A brief pause accentuated the building
tension. Then Jon spoke again, “You’re energetic and persuasive, quite
passionately so—” that vivid blue gaze focused on Adrian, sending an uneasy
chill through him. “—when you chose to be. You are well liked by most
everyone.”

Adrian’s heart began to hammer his chest
wall, as it did every time they had this discussion. “Jon, I—”

 
“I
need you to take on a more assertive role.” An expression of utter seriousness
sharpened Jon’s already fierce countenance. “The family needs you to take on a
more active, responsible role. There’s no one else of our blood that is better
suited for —”

“I’ve told you before.” Adrian said, putting
a cold, finality to his tone. “I am not interested in politics.”

Jon took a few more draws on his cigar. “I
don’t understand you. You could be so much more. You could have so much more.”

“You mean political power?” Adrian shook his
head. “I don’t need that kind of power.”

“Political power can lead to wealth a lot
quicker than cards.”

“Political power demands a price and that
price would be my freedom. It would require too much of my time.”

Jon nodded as he took a deep pull on his
cigar. “I see.” A sardonic note gave an edge to his brief chuckle. Then he
shook his head. “What the devil is wrong with you? You will not work for
something real, something for your sons. Yet, you will drive yourself to the
brink for a bit of fluff that—

The casual, derogatory term lit Adrian’s blood
like a charge. The chair made a screeching sound on the floor boards as he
dimly perceived himself jolt to his feet.

Jon paused with his cigar held part way to
his lips.

“You mean Miss Jones?” Adrian heard the edge
in his voice and felt the fisting of his hands at his sides.

Jon gaped at him. “Good God, it is worse
than I’ve been led to believe.”

“Led to believe? By who?”

“Dorothy and Charlie are quite concerned for
you.”

Dorothy and Charlie had gone bearing tales
to the Earl of Ruel? Ah, well, wasn’t that something?

“They should mind their own business, as you
should.”

“Take a look at yourself, Danvers. A long,
hard look.”

“You don’t understand the situation.”

“It is easy for a young man to become
fascinated with a lovely courtesan.”

Adrian let a sneer twist his lips. “Ah,
you’re referring to my father.”

“I am referring to any man who mistakes
infatuation for—

“Just say what you’re determined to say and
be done with it,” Adrian said, grittily.