Mistress (22 page)

Marcus considered how his life was about to change. He wondered how Bennet would react to the news of his impending nuptials.

At least Iphiginia was unlikely to object to the amount of time he spent in his library and laboratory, he thought philosophically. She would understand.

There might be children. Perhaps even a son to inherit the title. Odd, he had never before cared about having an heir of his own blood. Tonight, however, the prospect of Iphiginia carrying his babe gave him a strange sensation of possessiveness, an awareness of the future that he had not been conscious of until now.

It was a troublesome concept.

“Marcus?” Iphiginia’s voice sounded breathless.

Marcus realized that he was walking so swiftly she was obliged to skip to keep up with him. “Yes?”

“I realize that you are very angry, my lord. I want you to know that I sincerely regret my actions.”

“Hush, Iphiginia.”

“I should not have misled you about my past.”

“We will talk of this tomorrow. I must think on the matter tonight.”

“Yes, my lord. I understand. You are vastly annoyed and no doubt wish to abandon your pretense of being my lover.”

“I do not see any alternative.” He was going to replace the role of lover with that of husband.

“On the contrary,” Iphiginia said swiftly. “There is every reason to continue on with our masquerade.”

“That is no longer possible, Iphiginia.”

“Come now, sir. You are a very intelligent man.”

“Do you think so? I, myself, am having some doubts on that particular point.”

“Nonsense,” Iphiginia said bracingly. “You are really quite clever. There can be no question about the powers of your intellect.”

“Hmm.”

“And although you are angry, I know you will not allow your emotions to dominate your keen sense of reason.”

“I appreciate your confidence in my brain,” he said gravely.

“Yes, well, the thing is, I would like to remind you that I had a very good excuse for pretending to be both a widow and your mistress.”

“This is not the best time to remind me of your talent as an actress.” They were almost back to the terrace. Marcus saw that most of the lights on the upper floors were out. The guests were abed. It should not be difficult to get Iphiginia back to her bedchamber unseen.

“Sir, I must ask you to keep in mind that my reason for undertaking the role of your mistress-in-name-only still exists. We must maintain the pretense until we discover the identity of the blackmailer. I trust you will not do anything rash?”

“Rash?”

Iphiginia’s eyes were wide and luminous in the shadows. “I pray you will not terminate our liaison so far as Society is concerned. You will allow our pretense to stand, will you not?”

Her obvious failure to comprehend the ramifications of what had just happened on the floor of the Temple of. Vesta caused Marcus to lose what was left of his patience.

“Miss Bright, I would like to remind you that you have a new and potentially far more significant problem on your hands than you had an hour ago.”

She blinked uncertainly. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are no longer a mistress-in-name-only.”

She looked blank for an instant. Then realization dawned. “Oh, I see what you mean.”

“Do you, Miss Bright?”

“Yes, of course.” She lowered her eyes, apparently fascinated with the pleats of his shirt. “But I do not see that one extremely brief little interlude that did not amount to much need alter the nature of our association in any way.”

“Damnation, Iphiginia—”

“Marcus, please.” She raised a hand as though to touch his cheek and then apparently changed her mind. “I know that you did not enjoy what happened back there in the ruin.”

“My pleasure or lack of same is the least important element in this situation,” he said roughly. “I do not believe that you quite grasp the enormity of the problem.”

“But I do, my lord. I mean, I realize precisely how unnerving, indeed, how very alarming your collapse must have been for you. Heavens, for a moment there, I believed that you had died or at the very least had suffered a fit of apoplexy.”

“Apoplexy
. Christ. I am going mad. There can no longer be any doubt.”

“You must believe me when I say that I had no notion that your discovery that I was a virgin would have such a debilitating effect on you. I am truly sorry, my lord.”

Marcus reached the balustrade that surrounded the terrace. He came to a halt and looked at Iphiginia. Her conversation had become riveting in some strange, demented fashion. He was literally fascinated.

“Quite right,” he agreed. “How could you have known just what your virginity would do to my delicate sensibilities?”

“Precisely.” She smiled her brilliant smile. “But you have assured me that you are all right now. You were being truthful, were you not?”

“I do seem to have made a rather remarkable recovery, considering the circumstances.”

“Excellent. I know the entire affair must have given you quite a shock.”

“A shock.” He nodded once. “Yes, that describes it very well.”

“And it no doubt frightened you. But set your mind at ease, sir. I can assure you that there is no cause for further concern.”

Marcus put one hand on the balustrade and gripped it very tightly. “Why not?”

“Because you have my word of honor that I will make no further demands of an, ah—” she paused to gently clear her throat, “of an amorous nature upon you.”

He contemplated her expectant face for some time. He could not recall another female who had robbed him so thoroughly of speech.

“That is very thoughtful of you, Miss Bright.”

“Think nothing of it,” she said graciously. Then she leaned closer and lowered her voice to a more confidential tone. “To be perfectly frank, I did not find our little interlude all that pleasant, either, and I assure you that I am in no great rush to repeat it.”

Marcus went cold inside. The “interlude,” as she termed it, had been a debacle. On top of everything else, he had ruined her first experience of passion for her.

In spite of his initial anger and the devastating knowledge that his life had been irrevocably changed by her deception, Marcus felt a rush of guilt. His only goal tonight had been to give her pleasure even as he took his own. He had failed.

“Iphiginia, I regret the unpleasant nature of the experience. If I had known—”

“No, please.” She put her fingers over his mouth to silence him. “You must not apologize. Had I truly been what I pretended to be, a widow well acquainted with the intimacies of the marriage bed, I would have been better able to make the calculations.”

“What calculations?”

“Why, the sort I make when I am analyzing the perspective and elevations of a fine ruin,” she explained. “I would have realized that everything about you would be
in, er, equally majestic proportion, if you see what I mean.”

“Proportion?”

“I fear that I was somewhat misled by my previous experience with classical statues.” She frowned. “And even by those in Lartmore’s collection, now that I think of it.”

“Iphiginia—”

“In my own defense, however, I must tell you that in all my studies of ancient statuary, I have never come across an example which was constructed with precisely your proportions.”

Marcus interrupted deliberately. “This is undoubtedly one of the most interesting conversations I have ever had. However, it is getting quite late and I am determined that we shall deal with this matter at a later time.”

“After you have regained your composure, you mean?”

“That is one way of putting it. Let us go upstairs to our bedchambers, madam. I have some thinking to do.” He took her arm and started her toward the door.

“Marcus.” She clutched at his sleeve. “Promise me that you will not tell anyone that I am not really your mistress.”

“Calm yourself, Iphiginia.” Marcus opened the door and ushered her into a darkened hall. “Your little fiction is no longer a pretense, as we had agreed. There is no secret to keep. Tonight you really did become my mistress.”

She gave him a sharp glance. “You will not tell anyone that I am not really a widow, either, will you?”

“Believe me, I am no more eager for Society to learn the truth than you are.”

“No, of course not.” She appeared to relax slightly. “You would not want anyone else to know that you had broken one of your own rules, would you?”

“No,” Marcus said. “Things are going to be awkward enough as it is.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Never mind, Miss Bright. I shall explain it all to you at a more convenient time.”

“Mrs. Bright,” she corrected urgently. “We must maintain the masquerade in private or we might become careless in public.”

“I beg your pardon. Mrs. Bright.”

Marcus braced his hands against the windowsill of his bedchamber and looked out at the stars.

He had never thought to wed again.

He was about to break another of his own rules. Tonight, with the scent and the feel of Iphiginia still so fresh in his mind, he could not seem to think rationally on the subject of marriage.

The only thing that was transparently clear in his mind was the memory of Iphiginia bending over him, terrified that she had somehow murdered him with her virginity. Her words still rang in his head.

I love you, Marcus
.

She had been hysterical, of course, frantic at the thought that she’d accidentally killed him. That was the only reason she had said such a thing.

The next morning after breakfast, Lady Pettigrew regarded her departing guests with sincere regret. “I do wish the two of you could stay another day or so. We so enjoyed your visit, didn’t we, George?”

“Visit was fine,” Pettigrew muttered. He was having a hard time disguising his relief that at least two of the unwelcome guests were about to leave.

Lady Pettigrew turned to Iphiginia, who waited on the front steps as Marcus’s black phaeton was readied. “Mrs. Bright, I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to learn that my Temple of Vesta is indeed a proper sort of ruin.
Thank you so much for taking the time to study and measure it for me.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Iphiginia was terribly conscious of Marcus standing next to her. His impatience was palpable.

“You do feel that our ruin is quite accurate?” Lady Pettigrew pressed.

“Yes, indeed,” Iphiginia murmured. She could feel Marcus’s laconic gaze resting on her.

“It is amazingly accurate in every detail,” Marcus said. “I toured it myself last night. I vow, with very little imagination, one could imagine the presence of a genuine temple virgin.”

Lady Pettigrew glowed with pride. “Really?”

“Not bloody likely,” Pettigrew muttered. “And you cannot tell me you’d have wanted one to actually put in an appearance, Masters. Whole world knows that you have a rule against getting involved with virgins.”

Iphiginia was annoyed. “Some rules are made to be broken, so far as I am concerned.”

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
B
ARCLAY WAS USHERED INTO THE
library of Marcus’s town house. He sat down with a weary sigh, fumbled his spectacles into place, and withdrew several sheets of paper from a leather case.

Marcus leaned back in his chair and tried to restrain his seething curiosity while Barclay consulted a page of notes.

“Well?” Marcus said after what seemed an interminable length of time but which, in reality, was scarcely two minutes.

Barclay cleared his throat portentously and peered at Marcus over the gold wire frames of his spectacles. “To begin with, my lord, it appears that there never was a Mr. Bright. At least not one who was ever married to the current Mrs. Bright.”

“I’ve already learned that much.” The searing memory of the midnight tryst in the Temple of Vesta flashed through Marcus once again.

For the thousandth time he relived the glorious sensation of sinking himself into Iphiginia’s hot, snug body. And for what must have been the thousandth time, he felt himself grow heavy with arousal.

He could almost feel the silken lushness of her inner thighs. The recollection of her exquisitely shaped breasts shimmered tantalizingly in his mind. Her nipples had been so fresh and ripe. They tasted like nothing he had ever known. Her beautifully rounded derriere reminded him of some exquisite, exotic fruit he had once grown in his conservatory. And the scent of her would linger in his mind forever.

Barclay’s wiry brows connected in a solid line above his nose. “Begging your pardon, sir, but if you already knew that Mrs. Bright—I mean, Miss Bright—is no widow, d’you mind telling me why you sent me haring off to Devon?”

“I did not learn that particular fact until after you had left. Town.”

“How the devil did you discover it? I vow, no one here in Town knows.”

Marcus worked to keep his answer vague. “I learned the truth about the nonexistent Mr. Bright by using the same scientific methods I employ to discover other sorts of facts.”

Barclay looked confused. “You used a telescope or a microscope?”

“I used observation and deductive reasoning.” Marcus sat forward and rested his elbows on his desk. He clasped his hands together and regarded Barclay with a combination of foreboding and anticipation. “What else did you learn?”

Barclay consulted his notes. “Miss Bright was born and reared in the village of Deepford. Very small place. Finding it gave me no end of trouble, I assure you.”

“Nevertheless,” Marcus said, “you did find it.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

And if Barclay had discovered Deepford and the lack of a late Mr. Bright, others could do the same, Marcus thought. If someone else—a blackmailer, perhaps—grew curious enough to investigate her past, he would quickly learn that Iphiginia was no widow and therefore not immune
to the rules Society imposed upon spinsters and innocents.

Marcus did not know which annoyed him the most, the fact that Iphiginia was so very vulnerable or her refusal to acknowledge her vulnerability.

“Continue, Barclay.”

“Her parents, both of whom appear to have been endowed with somewhat unconventional temperaments, were lost at sea when she was barely eighteen years of age. She undertook the raising of her younger sister, Corina.”