My Fair Mistress (18 page)

The following day when she walked into the house on Queens Square, she didn’t quite know what to expect. Relief washed through her when Rafe greeted her as usual, then pressed a pair of hot, hungry kisses upon her lips.

Smiling and relaxed, she hurried up the staircase, taking the lead and leaving Rafe to follow. Inside the sitting room, she crossed to the sofa and sank down upon the cushions, while Rafe went to the sideboard to prepare drinks.

The tranquil scents of beeswax and lemon drifted on the air, the house as clean and tidy as ever. She’d asked him once about the servants, since she and Rafe were always utterly alone on their days together. A trio of charwomen came to dust and wash and polish on the days he and Julianna did not meet, he’d told her. And Hannibal—the huge man who had scared her so thoroughly that long-ago day when she’d boldly gone knocking on Rafe’s door in Bloomsbury—stopped by once a week to stock a few provisions in the larder and leave various other necessities.

Glassware clinked, followed by the liquid sound of wine being poured, its color as bold and red as blood. Lifting a glass in each hand, he strode toward her.

She was just taking her first swallow when Rafe spoke.

“Who is he, then?”

Her gaze flew upward, the wine going down a second too fast. She coughed once. “What?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “In Hatchard’s bookstore. Who was the man?”

“Oh. Lord Summersfield, do you mean?”

“If that’s his name, then yes. How well do you know him?”

Although his words were issued in their usual silky, deep-throated cadence, she thought she detected an underlying edge, just the faintest note of challenge.

She stifled a sigh.
So,
she mused,
we are going to talk about yesterday after all.
And here she’d been hoping they could put the whole encounter behind them.

“I know him well enough, I suppose,” she said. “His lordship and I are acquaintances.”

Rafe quaffed some wine. “The pair of you looked a great deal friendlier than mere acquaintances. Do you always laugh like that with virtual strangers?”

“I didn’t say he was a stranger. We are friends of a sort and acknowledge each other when in company.”

“What else do the two of you do together?
In company,
of course.”

“We dance and converse and have been known to share the occasional midnight supper. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

He sank down beside her and negligently stretched an arm along the top of the sofa. His new position made him seem larger somehow, more intimidating, like a big, sleek cat who’d found an interesting bit of prey with which to entertain himself.

Reaching out, he slid a pin from her coiffure, then a second, letting a long tress of hair tumble free. With a leisurely touch, he twined the loose strand around the tip of one finger. “He wants you, you know.”

A quiver rippled over her skin at Rafe’s touch. “Well, he can’t have me, as I have told him on more than one occasion.”

A sharp emerald glint flashed in Rafe’s eyes. “So he’s open about his desire for you, is he?”

“Yes, assuming it’s really genuine. Summersfield loves women and he enjoys flirting at every possible opportunity. I am but one of many.”

Rafe’s fingers stilled for a second before he continued stroking her hair, absently twining and untwining the strand. “Believe me, his interest is real.”

“Maybe so, since he asks me to marry him nearly every time we meet.”

“He’s proposed, has he?” Pausing, he raised his glass and took a slow drink before setting the beverage aside. “And what have you answered, pray tell?”

“I’ve answered no, of course,” she said, aware once again of the hard, barely perceptible edge to his tone. “There’s no need for you to be jealous.”

His dark brows lowered into a scowl. “I am
not
jealous.”

Noting the expression on his face, she decided to hold her tongue. Nonetheless, he must have read the retort in her eyes.

Leaning forward, he cupped her cheek in his hand. “I just don’t like sharing what is mine, that’s all.”

Her pulse fluttered as he captured her mouth, his kiss possessive and demanding, rich and warm with the flavor of the wine, and of Rafe himself. Closing her eyes, she kissed him back.

After a minute, he drew his lips across her cheek to her ear. “Nor do I like being forced to stand idly by and watch another man seduce you under my very nose.” Gently, he nipped her earlobe, then kissed her cheek.

“Hmm? Oh yes, the bookstore. He was not seducing me.” She caught his look and rephrased her reply. “I wasn’t
letting
him seduce me. And I’m sorry about yesterday, but I couldn’t acknowledge you, not openly. You understand, do you not?”

She waited, nerves tensing suddenly.

“I understand how it would have looked, even if I can’t say I enjoy kowtowing to Society’s rigid dictates and blatant inequities.”

“If not for Maris…”

“
Shh,
don’t worry. I saw your sister and know you couldn’t introduce me to her. It’s all right.”

In silent consolation, she laid a hand against his clean-shaven cheek.

“The two of you share a marked resemblance,” he observed.

“So we are often told. Maris thought you were very handsome, by the way.”

His lips curved. “Is that so? You aren’t trying to turn me sweet now, are you?”

Using the manicured edge of her fingernail, she skimmed it teasingly across his lower lip. “If I am, is it working?”

He laughed. “Very nearly. But first, I want to make my original point.”

“About what?”

“You know what.” Playfully, he nipped at her finger, then pulled away. “About this lord of yours.”

“He’s not
my
lord; I’ve already told you that.”

“Good. Then you will have no difficulty severing ties with him.”

Her eyebrows drew inward. “Severing ties…oh, I don’t see how I can do that.”

“Why not? Simply tell him you do not wish to see him anymore.”

She released a half-exasperated breath. “I don’t
see
him now, not the way you are implying. And it’s not so easy. He and I travel in the same social circles. It would be extremely awkward if I attempted to ignore him. Cutting him is out of the question. Doing so would cause talk, when there is no need for talk.”

His jaw firmed. “So you refuse to stop associating with him?”

“I refuse to be less than polite to him in a public setting, and he does not call at my townhouse, if that is your concern. Do you imagine there is more going on? Surely you do not think I am sharing my bed with him as well as you?”

“Of course not, I know you would never do such a thing.”

“Then do not be concerned.”

He really is jealous,
she realized. How extraordinary that a man like Rafe Pendragon could work himself into such a passion—over her. Was his outburst a case of simple male possessiveness, a dog with a toy he didn’t want any other dog to have, even if he might eventually grow tired of it? Or could Rafe’s reaction mean more? And did she want it to?

“But what of these marriage proposals of his?” he challenged.

“What of them? I do not want to wed Russell Summersfield, nor any man for that matter.”

“How can you be so sure? What if you change your mind? One day, you might be tempted to say yes.”

She shook her head. “I’ve been married, remember? I do not want to say yes, not ever again.”

Compassion eased some of the fierceness from his expression. “Not all men are like your husband. A few of us aren’t selfish brutes.”

“I know. But in my widowhood, I have come to appreciate my independence, you might say.”

“What of companionship? Do you never fear you might be lonely?”

“I would rather risk an occasional bout of loneliness than shackle myself inside another unhappy union. I am content to remain just as I am.”

Am I, though?
she wondered. If it was Rafe who loved her, would her answer be the same? If Rafe fell to his knees and proposed marriage and asked her to share his life, would she so easily refuse him as she had every other man who had asked?

But thinking such thoughts was ridiculous. Even if they wished it, there could never be anything permanent between her and Rafe.

Nor do I want there to be. Do I?

Enjoy the moment,
she told herself.
Be glad for these days and want nothing more.

With that in mind, she smiled and leaned forward to wrap her arms around his neck. Slowly, she joined their mouths for a long, languorous kiss. At length, she drew back a few inches. “If I promise to in no way encourage Lord Summersfield, will that satisfy you?”

“No flirting?”

“Not by so much as an eyelash.”

“No laughing?”

She steadied her expression. “I will be as severe as a parish vicar.”

“No more midnight suppers?”

“I will refuse to sup with him even at the risk of passing out from hunger.”

His lips curved into a grudging smile. “You need not go that far. Eat a large dinner first before you arrive at the ball.”

She laughed.

“Very well,” he agreed. “But I expect strict compliance.”

“My word of honor.”

Her tresses fell in a wave across her shoulders as he plucked the rest of the pins free.

She returned the gesture by tunneling her fingers into his hair to pull his head closer. “Now, will you do something for me?”

He raised a brow. “What?”

“Quit talking and take me to bed.”

Crushing her mouth to his, he kissed her with an unrestrained need that left her breathless. Moments later, he stood and swept her off her feet.

“Your wish, my lady, is my command.”

Chapter Eleven

R
AFE SURVEYED THE shadowed interior of the gaming hell, tobacco smoke and the pungent scent of burning tallow curling together to create an almost suffocating blue haze. Commoners and gentlemen alike were packed into the house, their voices loud, their actions boisterous as they crowded close around the various baize-covered tables.

In the main salon, players tried their luck at hazard and faro. Alternating choruses of cheers and groans rang out as bets were placed, die cast, cards drawn, and money won and lost. For those who preferred skilled card playing at a quieter, more relaxed pace, games of piquet, whist, and vingt-et-un were arranged in several of the side rooms. It was into one of these chambers that Rafe wandered, having failed to locate his quarry in the more populated areas.

A waiter approached and offered him a beverage. Rafe refused with a shake of his head, wanting to keep his wits sharp. After all, he wasn’t here for his own entertainment, and he had no intention of remaining a minute longer than his mission required.

As he knew, gambling was an extremely popular pastime, one that was nearly like a religion for some. But he’d seen too many lives destroyed by an addiction to betting and the heady rush it could bring. He was no prude, no puritan. A man, in his estimation, possessed free will and had every right to destroy his life if he so desired. But did that same man have the right to drag his family down with him?

Rafe had come here to convince one particular young man that he did not.

Spying the imprudent whelp at last, he strode forward, stopping a few feet to the right of his quarry’s shoulder. Silently, he watched the play.

Vingt-et-un was a game of odds and calculations, requiring a keen mind and a knack for knowing which cards had already been played, and which were likely to turn up. The dealer had fourteen showing, a queen and a four. The young man had a five and a two displayed, with a third card turned facedown.

Rafe watched Allerton flip the edge of his concealed card up, then down. A long moment of quiet followed as he clearly tried to decide his best move.

“Stay,” the young earl declared.

“Dealer takes a card. Four of spades. Dealer has eighteen.”

In a practiced gesture, the dealer reached out and turned over Allerton’s cards. “Player has seventeen. The house takes the hand.”

Coins and cards were swept clear of the table.

“You ought to have taken the hit, Allerton,” Rafe advised as he stepped closer. “Odds were fair you’d have come out ahead.”

Julianna’s brother turned his head, dark eyes flashing at the interruption. They lost some of their fierceness when he saw who had spoken to him. “Pendragon. How do you do?”

Rafe dipped his chin in reply.

“Must say I’m surprised to see you,” Harry said. “Didn’t know you frequented places like this.”

“I don’t. But I understand you’ve been making a habit of it again lately. Are you here alone?”

The young lord shook his head. “No, I came with a pair of my cronies, but they preferred the hazard tables, so I left them to it. Fool’s game, hazard. All luck with no need for skill.”

“I’ve found that most games of chance cater to the fool in a man.” Before Harry had a chance to think about the statement and ruffle up, Rafe continued. “Why don’t we adjourn to a more private location. There are matters that require discussing.”

Harry’s lips thinned as if he was going to object; then he shrugged. Pocketing the few coins left to him on the gaming table, he rose from his chair.