The Perfect Mistress (31 page)

“Drink your brandy.”

“Brandy won’t help.” But she downed the liquor nonetheless and held out her glass for more.

He crossed the room, grabbed the decanter, and returned to fill her glass. “Are you calmer now?”

“I shall never be calm again.” She looked up at him. “My reputation will be ruined. I will never be able to hold my head up in public.” Her thoughts raced. “I shall have to leave the country. Go to the continent perhaps. The French don’t seem to mind this sort of thing. Indeed, they relish it. Better yet, the Italians. I don’t speak the language but I can learn. Yes, that’s it. I shall move to Italy and never step foot in England again.”

“We will not allow that to happen.”

“And how are we going to prevent it?”

“I had a great deal of time to think on the way here. There are several options.” He paced the room. “First of all, and my own personal choice, is for you to accept my offer—”

“And allow you to destroy Hermione’s work? Never!”

“Let me finish if you please,” he snapped.

“Then do so,” she said, and took another deep swallow of the brandy.

“The more I have come to know you, the more I understand that regardless of the monetary compensation involved, you are far too stubborn—”

“Indeed I am.” She glared at him.

“And loyal to a member of your family you have never met, which is rather admirable,” he added quickly.

“I like her,” she said under her breath.

“Understandable, as you’ve been reading her words. As I was saying,” he continued. “I know you would not sell them to me because, even if I promised not to destroy them, you cannot trust that my word would be greater than my loyalty to my family.” His gaze pinned hers. “Even though I have never gone back on my word.”

She blew a resigned breath. “I have no doubt of that.”

“However, if I simply bought the rights to publish them, you could keep the actual work locked away where no one could find it hopefully.”

“That might be agreeable,” she said slowly.

“And I suspect, without public dissemination to fuel the fire, the gossip would eventually die.”

She heaved a heartfelt sigh. “Hermione wants them published, I think. Although I haven’t asked her. I should do that.” She tossed back the brandy. Her glass was again empty. She held it out to him. “If you please.”

“Given you are now talking about asking your dead ancestor her opinion, I think you’ve had more than enough.”

She scoffed. “I haven’t had nearly enough.”

He studied her then reluctantly filled her glass halfway.

“You said there were options.”

“Yes. The next is to allow the memoirs to be published. When I first heard about the gossip I didn’t think that was a good idea. Now however I have changed my mind. Once read, I can’t imagine anyone thinking they were written by you.”

Her eyes widened in indignation. “Why not?”

“Why not?” His brows drew together. “You just said your imagination is not that fertile.”

“Well, I certainly couldn’t have invented all of Hermione’s adventures. She had a great many of them. But I can well imagine frolicking naked in a meadow under the moonlight. Or a tryst in a garden during a masked ball. Or finding exquisite passion I never dreamed possible in the arms of a man I scarcely knew.”

He stared. “What man?”

You!
“No man in particular.” She huffed. “I’m only saying, that while I couldn’t have written all of her adventures, I could certainly have thought of some of them. I’m rather insulted that you think I couldn’t.”

“It wasn’t a criticism of your intellect, but rather a compliment on your proper nature.”

“I am much less proper than I used to be. Indeed, I am tired of being proper altogether. I ’d rather have a bit more adventure and considerably less … less …
content
!”

He stared at her as if she were speaking a language he didn’t understand. Or was completely mad. Not that she cared.

“I am more like Hermione than I imagined.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “And in these circumstances I believe it would be wise for me to consider exactly what she would do.” She downed the rest of her brandy and rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet. “Obviously, I can no longer put off making a decision regarding the disposition of the memoirs. I shall do so before I return to London.”

“Past time I would say.”

“Yes, well you have never been indecisive,” she said sharply. “Until recently.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I am going to retire for the evening now. I have a great deal to think about.” She straightened her shoulders, a lofty note sounding in her voice. “I do appreciate you making the effort to come all the way here to inform me of this
awkward
situation. It was a very …” She searched for the right words. “Responsible thing to do. For a friend.”

“A friend?” He glared.

“Yes.” She waved toward the door. “Now then, I am certain you are eager to be on your way.”

He shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I assumed you would return to London tonight.”

“I don’t know why you assumed that. I have spent many nights in this house and I intend to do so tonight.” He drained his glass. “I should like to speak to Veronica as well.”

“Veronica isn’t here.”

“Where is she?”

“London, I would say.” She shrugged. “She is not expected until tomorrow.”

“I see.” He thought for a moment. “I’m certain she would not have any difficulty with my staying the night. Unless, of course, you do.”

“I don’t care what you do. It’s a very big house.” She started toward the door. “I shall inform the servants to make up a room for you.”

“I did that on my arrival,” he said in clipped tones.

“Of course you did, given your efficient nature.” She turned and stalked across the library and into the hall.

“Why are you angry at me?” He trailed after her.

“I’m not angry with you.” She started up the stairs.

“What have I done save come all the way from London?”

“What have you done?” She whirled around. “First of all, you’re following me.”

“I most certainly am not. I’m going to my room.”

“So you say.” She sniffed and continued up the stairs.

“I am not following you.”

“Why not? You followed me to the country.”

“Well, I am not following you now.”

“Hah!” She reached the top of the stairs and turned toward her room, acutely conscious that he was right on her heels. She reached her door, threw it open then glanced at him. “Don’t tell me this is the room you always stay in.”

“It’s not.” He stepped to the door directly across the hall. “This is my room.”

“Excellent! I would hate to inconvenience you.”

He snorted. “You have done nothing but inconvenience me from the moment I first heard your name.”

She stared at him. “I cannot fully express how that delights me!”

He snapped open his door. “And I cannot believe I came all the way here to …”

“To what?”

He shook his head. “This was obviously a mistake.”

“If that’s the way you feel—”

“You know nothing about the way I feel,” he said sharply.

“Oh? And how do you feel?” “Confused. Annoyed. Irritated.” His jaw clenched. “Confusion, annoyance, and irritation have been my constant companions since the moment I met you.”

“Welcome, my lord, to my life!”

“Your life?”

“You are the most—”

“I know, I know.” Impatience rang in his voice. “I am the most annoying man you have ever met. Surely a woman who prides herself on her intelligence could come up with something more original.”

“I shall certainly give it my complete attention!” With that she stepped into her room and slammed the door behind her. A split second later she heard the door across the hall slam as well.

She was furious with him and wasn’t exactly sure why. She quickly pulled off her gown and her undergarments and changed into her nightclothes, grateful she had told the maid last night she would need no assistance. The last thing she wanted was a servant to witness her display of temper. She threw back the covers, extinguished the lamp, and fell into bed. She lay staring into the dark and tried to marshal her thoughts.

There was no real reason to be angry with him. He had, after all, come here to warn her about the gossip when it certainly could have waited. He’d gone out of his way and, in truth, it was very thoughtful. He didn’t owe this to her. He was simply being, well, nice. Very nice. More than nice. And in return she had raised her voice and lost her temper again and she hadn’t been very nice at all.

She heaved a heartfelt sigh. It wasn’t anger she felt. Well, it was, but it stemmed from disappointment. She had hoped, when he’d arrived, that he’d come to tell her that he shared her feelings. Not that he knew what her feelings were. She’d had every intention of telling him but the words wouldn’t come. Quite simply she’d been afraid of what he might say or do. Or worse, that he didn’t feel the same.

“I could use some advice now, you know,” she said, and waited. There was no response but then she wasn’t surprised. Obviously, this was something she needed to figure out on her own.

In spite of what she might say or hope, Julia really wasn’t as much like Hermione as she wished. Hermione who had loved all her partners in adventure and had never hesitated to do precisely what she wanted. Julia had loved William who had never made her lose her temper or cause her to speak without thinking or curled her toes when he kissed her but with whom she had been content. And now she loved Harrison who elicited passions in her she’d never dreamed of and made her ache with desire she’d never imagined and might well drive her mad.

How sad and bad and mad it was—But then, how it was sweet
.

She threw back the covers, slid out of bed, and lit the lamp. Hermione was right; there was nothing wrong with pursuing what you wanted. She pulled on her robe and summoned her courage. It was past time to take action, even if it was wrong.

Harrison paced his room, grateful for the decanter of brandy that was always on the desk in this room when he was a guest.

What had he done wrong? He racked his brains trying to think, going over every word. He’d taken her hands when he’d arrived and she did not pull away, which had seemed very good. She’d said she was pleased to see him and he’d seen it in her eyes as well. He’d talked about Charles, which certainly was forgivable. And … she had something she thought he should know. But what? Surely it was something quite wonderful. Why, hadn’t the look in her eyes said as much?

Damnation. He had come here as much to tell her of his feelings as to inform her about the gossip; more really. Yet somehow that had slipped right by him. What an uncertain idiot he was. But then that’s how she made him feel and he might as well get used to it. The woman made him ache and no woman had ever done that before. He loved her and he wanted her. In his bed and in his life forever. And it was past time he did something about it. Whether she realized it or not she’d led him on a merry chase and by God it was over. He stalked to the door, pulled it open, and stepped into the hall. Julia paused in midstep halfway across the hall, a scant two steps away.

Their gazes met and for a long moment neither said a word.

Then her chin raised slightly and she drew a deep breath. “Kiss me, my lord.”

… in spite of all evidence to the contrary, he did like to think he was in command. But then they all do. It is part of the makeup of men. They believe they do indeed rule the world and are lord of all they survey. And we allow them to think so as we are generally fond of them and, as well, we know better.

So when Sir Harold wished to believe seduction was entirely his idea and I had to be convinced as to the merits of the endeavor, why, what was I to do? It will come as no surprise that given …

      from
The Perfect Mistress,

the Memoirs of Lady Hermione Middlebury

She stared at him and for a moment wondered if she had made a dreadful mistake.

Then, without warning she was in his arms and his lips were pressed against hers. Her mouth opened to his and he angled his lips harder over hers. His tongue teased hers and desire hard and hot washed through her and she melted against him. He tasted of brandy and passion and longing and she moaned softly against him. His mouth explored her, pillaged her, claimed her. After a moment or an eternity he raised his head and stared into her eyes.

“Julia?”

“Yes,” she breathed the word in answer to the question in his eyes.

He scooped her into his arms and carried her back into her room, shutting the door behind him with his foot.

She’d never wanted a man like this. Indeed, she couldn’t remember ever wanting, ever needing, ever aching like this before. He set her on her feet beside the bed and again his mouth claimed hers. And the restraint born of the proper behavior of a lifetime shattered. Her hands and his were everywhere at once, frantic with desire new and unknown and too long ignored. She tugged at the sash of his dressing gown until it opened, then pushed it off his shoulders. He pulled off her robe and his lips left hers to explore the bend of her neck and the curve of her shoulders. She shuddered at the feel of his lips on flesh never before so sensitive.

He fumbled with the ties of her nightgown until she felt it fall to the floor. Cool air caressed her heated body. He pulled away to impatiently drag his nightshirt over his head and toss it aside, then gathered her close. Her arms slid around his neck. His naked body pressed against her and he took her mouth again and again, a portent of what would come. What she wanted. His mouth plundered hers and she reveled in the feel of their tongues dueling, mating, their mouths joined, the heat of his body next to hers.

Her breasts pressed against his chest, rough with coarse hair that only heightened her desire. He ran his hands over her back and skimmed along her sides to rest in the dip of her waist. Heat pooled deep in her womb and moisture dampened between her legs. His arousal lay hard against her stomach and she slipped her hand between their bodies to wrap it around his—
cock
was the word in Hermione’s memoirs when nothing else would serve. Not a word that Julia would have so much as thought before reading her great-grandmother’s adventures, but here and now it was—a shiver ran through her—erotic and exciting. A voice in the back of her head noted, even with her husband, she had never been so bold as to touch him in this manner but she didn’t care. Bold seemed right, natural somehow with this man. As if something inside her had been waiting for him to set it free. Maybe she had changed, maybe she was indeed like Hermione but she’d never known this kind of passion, this kind of desire. Gripping and driving and unrelenting. As if she were no longer the Julia she had always been but a creature of sensation and need. He groaned against her mouth and she stroked him, relishing the feel of his arousal—his cock—in her hand.