His Lady Mistress (11 page)

She was dying, close to exploding. Her body had become some winged creature, still earthbound, struggling for release even as he slowed his rhythm. She wept her protest and felt him groan as he lifted over her to thrust deeper and harder.

He took her to the very edge, where pleasure became an agony of need, where the abyss beckoned in tongues of flame. He held her there mercilessly, until she broke, shattering as her body took flight and soared. And she felt him thrust deeper than ever and fly with her until the fire consumed them both.

Max stared up into the shadowed canopy of the bed, watching the flickering shadows cast by the dying fire. He had
never felt anything like this. As though he had just taken vows. As though he had pledged his life to something. God help him, if he weren’t such a cynical, experienced rake, he’d swear he was falling in love.

With his mistress? He hadn’t known this soul-stealing intimacy existed.

A soft, trusting weight snuggled warmly against his left side. A silken arm lay across his stomach, satin limbs entwined with his and her cheek was pressed to his chest, near where her last sleepy kisses had fallen. His heart shook. She had fallen asleep kissing him. When had that happened before?

He had a guilty feeling that he usually fell asleep first after bedding a woman. Never before had he lain there, holding a girl while she cuddled up to him, pressing clumsy kisses on his chest as she dozed off. He doubted that any of his previous mistresses would have even thought of kissing him as they fell asleep. Come to think of it, he doubted
she
had even thought of it—she’d simply done it, as though she couldn’t bear to let him go, as though she couldn’t get close enough to him, as though she had to touch him or die.

That had been over an hour ago. His arms tightened protectively. Sleep was impossible. He wanted her again. He’d wanted her almost immediately, but she’d been so sleepy and she’d seemed so dazed by their lovemaking. And now she was sound asleep. In his arms.

It was almost as fierce a pleasure as loving her had been. It burnt deeply into him, because he knew that in snuggling up to him, in kissing and touching him, she hadn’t
wanted
him. Not in the usual sense of the word. He knew he’d satisfied her—no man could have felt those shivering pulses and not known it. She had wanted
him.
His warmth, his arms. She had simply wanted to be close to him. No one had ever wanted
him
before. No one had ever trusted him so deeply.

Three months. He smiled to himself. There wasn’t a chance
in hell that he’d let her go after three months. Which brought him to the question of where she should live. He kept a small house in London for his mistresses. There he could visit them discreetly. He couldn’t imagine Selina there. Not in that house. It seemed…wrong, tawdry. He’d have to think of something else.

A soft sigh breathed against him and the warm weight shifted slightly.

‘Max?’ The lightest of whispers, as though she feared disturbing him. It was more than enough for Max.

‘Yes,’ he breathed. And rolled her beneath him again.

Verity had awoken to a sense of safety, of rightness, of warmth and tenderness wrapping her against a hard masculine body. She drew the musky, male scent deep. His name breathed from her, part of her now, and she felt his arms tighten as he answered, taking her beneath him again.

Possessive, urgent hands roamed her body, caressing her to heated life. His mouth took hers even as one powerful thigh eased between hers, opening her. Her body softened instantly, melting in response. She knew a moment’s tension as he entered her still-tender body, but then he was deep within and delight claimed her.

Max framed her face with his hands, holding her still for his kiss as he slid into the tight, welcoming heat of her body. He groaned, trying to slow down. He hadn’t meant to take her this fast, but he was beyond control. And each movement of his body drew those soft, aching cries of pleasure from her, pleading for more, not less. It had never been like this. He made love to her with a burning intensity that he didn’t even begin to understand. How could he? He had never even imagined such a thing.

The fire had died completely when he awoke again, aching with the fierceness of his need. She lay secure in his arms, her breath a softly sighed caress on his skin, silky curls spread across his chest. Her body had moulded to him in total re
laxation, every curve fitting against him in heart-shaking intimacy. One leg was curled up, the rounded thigh lying over his.

There was no way in the world he would take her to London. He knew now where he would take her. There was a house on his estate where she could live. It was quite isolated, high on the Downs, but she would not be lonely. He intended being with her frequently. And he would settle the lease of the house on her for her life. Along with an annuity. She would be safe then. He buried his face in her hair, breathing deep the scent of warm, sweet femininity.

Unable to help himself, he stroked the softness of her exposed breast, felt his heart clench as she sighed and shifted in her sleep, nestling closer.

Never had it been like this. Something was very different. And until he worked out exactly what it was, he had no intention of letting her go.

The stirring household jolted Verity fully awake just before dawn. She lay quietly, breathing in the warm, musky scent of her lover. Soon she would have to get up, but not quite yet. The feeling of being so safe, so cared for, was too precious to waste.

Would it always be like that? Her body tingled at the memory of his mouth on her breasts, his tender hands teasing her to life and awareness. The soul-shaking moment when he had possessed her completely, taking her virginity. She would never be able to tell him that. He thought Godfrey had ruined her. Otherwise he might not have been willing to take her. She didn’t want him to feel guilty. She knew, to her core, his sense of honour.

She also knew that she ought to feel guilty, terrified of the consequences of her actions. Her choice. Her responsibility. She had come to him and offered herself freely. The world would condemn her without hesitation, but she could not regret it. For five years she had dreamed of him, imagining
impossible happy endings to her nightmare: that he would come for her one day and ask her to be his. That he would love her and protect her. Half a dream was better than nothing. He had offered to protect her.

She lay still, enveloped in his warmth, secure in his arms. Surely it was better to have given herself freely than to have been forced into submission to Godfrey’s lust. A shiver rippled through her at the thought and she felt Max’s arms tighten around her, heard a sleepy grunt.

She had to leave. Quickly. Before a housemaid came in to do the room. If she delayed any longer, she would be caught and there would be the very devil to pay.

Max lay dozing in the early morning light, part of him immeasurably content—and part of him aware that something was missing. He felt incomplete in some fundamental way. With a sigh he rolled over and reached for…An empty bed was all he found. Abruptly he realised what, or rather who, was missing. Where the devil was she? He fell back with a groan. This was not his house, of course. The last thing Selina would want was to be caught in his bed, even if they were leaving today. Come to think of it, she might not even know they were leaving. He didn’t think he’d mentioned it last night.

Last night…Linking his arms behind his head, he lay back and smiled reminiscently. She’d been as sweet and responsive as he’d imagined. No. She’d been sweeter. He had never known a woman to respond and give herself with such utter trust. His whole body hardened at the memory of the tender body that had lain beneath him: the soft cries of feminine need aroused and fulfilled that had burnt him to his soul, the shivering completion that had finally broken his control and brought him his own release.

He thought he knew now what was different. Women had always given him pleasure, but never before had he thought a woman had given herself. Lord, he’d never realised that a
woman
could
give herself so completely. It had never been more than an exchange of pleasure. But now…The sooner he arose and got on the road back to London, the sooner he could have Selina in his bed again.

In his life. He knew now what he wanted. He couldn’t marry. His word had been given. But he could still have Selina to care for, a family to protect. She would be
his
. His only.
That
was the difference. She was his. To protect. Care for.
Love?

He flung back the covers and swung his legs out of bed. Harding would be in soon anyway, so…
What the devil was that?

The small, dark stain in the centre of the lower sheet lay there accusingly. He sat down on the edge of the bed, staring, shock white hot in every vein. It wasn’t true. It
couldn’t
be true. The evidence before his eyes assured him that it was. Dazedly he thought back. How the devil could he have missed something like that?

You weren’t expecting it. You thought Faringdon had had her. And she certainly didn’t say anything.

Ignoring the aching desire in his loins, he relived the moment he had taken her. She’d been so soft and pliant beneath him as he rolled on top of her. Her mouth a sweetness of fire under his as he spread her legs apart. He frowned. Yes, she’d stiffened as she felt him pressing against her. Natural enough if Faringdon had abused her. She had begged him not to stop when he offered. He had teased her a little more with his fingers until she cried out, lifting against him, as urgent as he.

He’d taken her mouth and body in the same searing instant, driving deep. So urgently he hadn’t realised her innocence. That cry his kiss had absorbed…He winced. Thinking it a cry of joy, of pleasure, he’d pressed even deeper, claiming everything she had to give. He shuddered at the realisation that it had probably been a cry of pain, that whatever pleasure
he had given her later, at that moment, he had hurt her. And he had not stopped to ease her pain. He hadn’t even realised.

Why hadn’t she told him? He had made it clear enough that he thought Faringdon had stripped her of her innocence. Had she thought he wouldn’t touch her if he knew her to be a virgin? He took leave to doubt that he would have been capable of quite that much disinterested chivalry. But at least he could have controlled himself and not taken her more than once. He hoped.

His fists clenched on the tumbled bedding. Why
hadn’t
Faringdon taken her? What had held him back? The girl had spirit, yes. She had marked the distempered cub’s face the other night, but when all was said and done, she was not very big. And there had been no one to defend her. She could not possibly have held out against Faringdon if he had really decided to force her. Why hadn’t he?

Max had no hesitation in dismissing the possibility of disinterested chivalry in the case of Godfrey. His own might be dubious. Godfrey Faringdon probably couldn’t even define the phrase. It was in the highest degree unlikely that he would ever have been held to account for the rape of a nursery governess. She would have been just one more ruined girl, turned off without a character.

The faint click of the door opening brought him up short. Prudently he pulled the covers back over himself. And back over that telltale stain.

Harding came in and blinked. Then his eyes took on an obliging glassiness as he studiously avoided looking at the devastation of the bedding, his master’s clothes scattered around the floor—and closed his mind to the fact that his aforesaid master had, apparently, slept stark naked.

‘Good morning, my lord,’ said Harding, as he retrieved my lord’s shirt, apparently without noticing it. ‘I trust you slept…ah…that is to say, that you had a satisfactory…’ His façade cracked slightly. He shut up and folded the shirt instead.

‘Thank you, Harding.’ Max left it at that. ‘Perhaps you might pass me my dressing gown.’

‘Certainly, my lord.’

“‘Sir” will do,’ growled Max. He had been ‘Sir’ to Harding for too many years to change now.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Harding. He handed the dressing gown to Max and said, ‘I know you wished to leave by eight, sir, but in the light of information come to hand, I’ve taken the liberty of making that nine. Thinking it would give you a bit more time, sir.’

Max knew his man too well to bother with a reprimand. He merely asked, ‘What the devil for?’

‘Well, what you said last night, about the Colonel’s daughter being dead? She’s not.’

‘What?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ said Harding. ‘Been making my own inquiries, I have. In the servants’ hall. Asked about her, you see. Thought it might help. Well, they clammed up, the lot of ’em. Wouldn’t say a word about Miss Scott. Except one of the maids, Sukey. And she got a clout on the lug for speaking out of turn. But I managed to get her alone last night after the rest had gone to bed. Wanted to find out what happened to the lass. In the end she told me the truth. Miss Scott’s not dead, but they treat her like a dog…’

He continued, but Max didn’t hear any more. Knowledge and understanding hit him simultaneously, along with flaring rage. He now knew why Faringdon would have hesitated to force ‘Selina’ and why she had not told him she was a virgin. He’d taken the bait, hook, line and several pounds’ worth of sinker. Caught by the oldest trick known to woman.

His father’s voice echoed mercilessly in his mind…
Max, if you must fire a pistol—remember the ball has to go somewhere. The consequences are your responsibility…

He focused back on what Harding was saying. ‘So she’s here in the house, sir. Shall I—?’

‘Don’t worry, Harding,’ grated Max. ‘I know exactly
where to find Miss Verity Scott. And I suggest you get a message down to the stables for my curricle to be sent around immediately.’ He found a purse of money. ‘Take this. Book a seat on the mail for yourself. Sorry, Harding, but three’s a crowd. I have a great deal to say to Miss Verity Scott!’