His Lady Mistress (19 page)

She sketched steadily. If she finished the dogs before they recovered, she could fill in the background at her leisure. As long as she could keep her mind off the reason she was doing this particular sketch. She gritted her teeth. Possibly it would be torn up, or at the very least thrust to the back of a drawer, but it would serve as a sort of unspoken apology to Richard…for what? Using the library in her own home? Obviously her presence had been totally unwelcome since she had found her crayons, neatly boxed and sorted, on her dressing table when she returned from her walk.

Grimly she concentrated; somehow she had to make the dogs look asleep, not dead. Despite herself, she smiled at the way they were curled up together, Gus’s nose resting on Taffy’s back. A bee hovered over his nose, buzzing loudly. Gus opened one eye, snapped lazily and the bee flew off into a lavender bush.

Her shoulders ached and she wriggled them again.

Slowly, steadily, the sketch progressed and she was able to lose herself in it, forgetting everything. Except for the dull ache in her heart, the ache that whispered she had failed, that Max didn’t want her as a wife in any capacity, that he no longer even wanted her as a woman. She thrust the knowledge away. At least she had a home, somewhere she felt safe…She should be counting her blessings. Her neck ached. Unconsciously she reached up and rubbed it, turning her head from side to side to release the sore muscles.

‘Madam?’

The quiet, deep voice brought her around with a snap and she gave a cry of shocked pain as every muscle in her neck locked tight. Dizzy, nauseated with the sudden pain, she fought, eyes closed, to control it.

‘Verity! Here, let me.’ Gentle hands closed on her shoulders, drew her close and eased her forehead against a powerful chest. Careful probing fingers began to rub and soothe the taut muscles of her neck, easing the tightness, relaxing her.

Close. Too close. He was holding her again. Gentle, tender. Memory poured over her in a bittersweet wave, mocking her with the echo of what might have been. If she had not been so foolish, or if he had never found out who she was.

She wriggled, trying to escape, but he held her with effortless strength. ‘Please—let me go. There is no need…’

‘Shh.’ His fingers pressed and kneaded. ‘You were rubbing your neck anyway. And you’re wound as tight as a watch-spring. Just relax. Let me help you. I shouldn’t have startled you like that.’

On a silent prayer, she summoned every scrap of control, of diffidence, all the things she didn’t possess where he was concerned. Especially in the face of his unexpected concern. No. Not unexpected. Even when he had been most angry with her, he had protected her.

Through the thin muslin gown she felt his soothing fingers shift to her shoulders, rubbing and kneading stiff muscles, easing the tension there. Strong, yet so gentle, they seemed to know every sore spot, every ache—just as they knew her body in other ways. She retreated from the thought, but it was too late. Memory surrounded her, lapping at her, dissolving her defences and washing through her.

She breathed deeply, willing herself to forget. A trace of sandalwood, the musky scent, now slightly sweaty, that was Max himself, and something else—a faint smell of…horse. That was it.

‘You’ve been riding,’ she said. And was shocked at the husky tone of her voice. Something had gone vastly wrong with her lungs.

His hands stilled. ‘Are you telling me I stink of the stables?’

She shook her head against his chest and shivered at the caress of his waistcoat against her cheek. A snuffle and insistent paw made her look down. The dogs had come to see what madness their humans were at. Gus stood, one paw resting on Max’s thigh, the other demanding her attention.

‘It’s all right, Gus,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. Down, old chap.’

‘Not in his vocabulary, I’m afraid,’ said Max, a wry note in his voice. ‘The pair of them are atrociously spoiled.’ He continued to knead and Verity relaxed further, lassitude enveloping her. She had not realised until now just how tightly she was wound.

Max hadn’t realised either. The tension he had found in her shocked him. Like a harpstring, stretched almost to breaking point. Closing his eyes, he acknowledged that it had taken
more than his unexpected appearance to tie her in knots like that.

And now she lay relaxed, soft and yielding in his arms, as she had the night he had unwittingly taken her innocence. Memory was a fire in his blood, the flames licking at the edges of his self-control. He should release her, step back from the edge. His decision had been made before the wedding.

She nestled a little closer, her cheek shifting against his chest. Through his coat, waistcoat and fine linen shirt, the unconscious caress seared him like a brand.

‘I hope your neck feels better now, madam.’

She stared up at him and for a moment he saw the shock in her face. ‘M…Max?’ No more than a whisper, shaken, uncertain. A small hand lifted.

He rose and stepped back, inclining his head politely.

The hand dropped into her lap and she turned away, picking up her crayons.

‘Ah, you found your crayons. I asked Mrs Henty to return them to your room.’

‘Oh. Did you? Thank you, my lord. Is there something I can do for you, or am I in your way here?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘You will disturb no one out here, but I should point out that this is Richard’s home, as well as mine. He does not appreciate intrusions on his privacy, any more than I do. Perhaps you might find somewhere else to sketch other than the library?’

He had spoken gently enough, but the box of crayons slipped from her hold. Automatically she bent down to pick it up. What had he said?
Intrusion on his privacy? Richard’s home, as well as mine.
Max and Richard’s home. Not hers. When had she last had a home? Not since…not since her mother died had she felt that she had a home. A place where she felt safe and wanted. Loved. A home was more than safety. To feel at home you had to be wanted. Part of the family. Not a resented responsibility.

Apparently, instead of attempting to create a marriage she had encroached on Max’s privacy. She had forgotten her place, in fact. Pain spread out from deep within her, tearing at her with unsheathed claws. She dragged in a breath, wondering if it would rip her apart, and straightened. Blindly she met his gaze, wondering what to say. Then, ‘I was happier as your mistress.’

His jaw dropped. ‘I…I beg your pardon?’ he asked carefully.

She could practically feel the shock rippling out of him. Turning away, she began repeating her remark. ‘I was happier as your—’

‘I
heard
what you said!’

A knife, twisting and burning deep within, Verity responded, ‘Really? Was that an apology you were offering, then? How very surprising.’

‘
Apology?
Why, you little…’

Words apparently failed Max, so Verity took it upon herself to help him out. ‘Whore? Bitch?’ She kept her back to him, to all intents ordering the crayons in their box. The colours blurred. She blinked hard.

‘I had no intention of saying anything of the sort.’ Max’s voice sounded from much closer.

She whirled, fingers tightening on the box, and saw that he was coming towards her, a strange expression on his face.

‘No, my lord? Don’t you believe in speaking your mind?’ There. She’d said it. Flung down the gauntlet. She only wished it had been the one from the suit of armour in the hall, and that she could have hurled it in his face.

It was possible to control her breathing if she kept it shallow. If she concentrated on every breath, every step, she might manage to escape before the heat behind her eyelids became a scalding torrent. Before she fell apart.

She had tried. And she had failed. Again. Somehow she forced her voice to function. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord. Please convey my apologies to your brother and assure him
that I won’t trouble him again.’ Her chin high, she walked past him, teeth clenched, eyes burning with hurt.

It doesn’t matter. It mustn’t matter.

‘What sense was there in being my mistress?’ he growled. ‘You have what you wanted—safety!’

Fury surged through her and she rounded on him. ‘You wanted a mistress. Not a bride. You wanted Selina. Not me. I should have returned to the Faringdons.’

‘Verity!’

‘Go to the devil, my lord!’ Her control cracking, she walked away.

Max stood staring after her, shaken to the core. Had she wanted more than safety? Had she wanted what he had wanted? Whatever that was.

Chapter Nine

M
ax stalked into breakfast on his birthday, thoroughly out of charity with the world. Apparently he had finally persuaded his wife that their lives should be conducted separately. He hadn’t even seen her since their row in the garden. He should be feeling relieved, not worried about whether or not she was eating properly.

‘Happy birthday, Max,’ offered Richard.

He smiled faintly. ‘You too, Ricky. Er…your present wouldn’t fit in here. At least she would, but Henny swore that she and the maids would resign in a body, so I left her in the stables.’

‘Henny?’ asked Richard with a grin.

Max chuckled. ‘No, Angelfire’s foal. She’ll be a beauty. Just up to your weight. Good breeding stock too.’

Richard flushed. ‘Damn it, Max! You
can’t
give me that filly. With her bloodlines she could be a champion! Another Molly Longlegs. Choose an—’

‘Oh, stubble it, Ricky!’ said Max. ‘She’s yours.’

Richard subsided, still muttering about over generous idiots. Ignoring this, Max picked up one of the parcels beside him on the table.

He cast a guilty glance at the place set for Verity. It would remain empty. But the staff kept setting it for her. The empty
chair and pristine silver mocked him. And her words haunted him—
Whore? Bitch?
Would she really have preferred to return to the Faringdons rather than marry him? Damn it! She’d wanted safety and security. Enough to become his mistress. What more did she want now that she had it?

He glanced up and found Richard’s gaze on him.

‘Not much,’ said Richard, flushing.

For a moment his mind blanked. And then he realised that he was still holding the parcel. Unwrapping it, he found a small carving of two spaniels curled up together. He shot a glance at the fireplace where the originals lay in a tangle of paws and drooping ears. He chuckled. Only Richard could have given him this.

All he said was, ‘Now I know why you’ve been leaving such a mess in the library.’ No more was necessary. Not with Richard.

Another larger, flat parcel lay beside his place. Frowning, Max picked it up. ‘What’s this?’

Richard shrugged. ‘Open it and find out. It was there when I came in. Almeria, perhaps? She might have sent it via Henny.’

Max dismissed that suggestion with a snort. ‘Hardly!’ Almeria only noted one’s birthday if one chanced within earshot of her discourse on duty and propriety.

He opened the parcel, puzzled. A frame came into view—a picture, then. His breath caught…but how could Richard not have known? Or had he? Yet it seemed so unlike him to consent to such a thing.

Max stared down at the crayon portrait of his brother, caught frowning in concentration over something in his hands. Looking more closely Max could see that he was carving; the artist had even captured the wood shavings curling down in a beam of sunlight. He looked again and smiled. He knew where this had been done. The bay window in the library. The floor there had been littered with shavings recently. He could have been given nothing he would value
more dearly. But who had done it? The sketch held him speechless. He could almost feel the sunlight pouring in…

Dismissing speculation, he turned to his brother. ‘Thanks, Ricky,’ he said simply.

Richard stared. ‘What for?’

Max held up the picture. ‘This.’

Richard leaned forward over the table. ‘Nothing to do with me. What is it?’

Max felt a queer stab of presentiment. ‘You must have known. Who did it?’ Even as he asked, he remembered the crayons and his whole world tipped over.

Richard rose stiffly and came around the table. ‘Who did wha—Good God!’ He stared at the sketch in disbelief. ‘So
that’s
why she kept staring at me! The little—’ He bit off whatever he had been going to say and pointed at the bottom right corner.

Max knew who had done it but, even so, steel bands clamped around his heart as he saw what Richard was pointing at. Entwined initials. A
V
and an
S
.

‘You didn’t know?’ he asked, confused. How the devil had she known about his birthday? And dammit all—she’d signed it with her maiden name! Hurt and shame flooded him.

Richard shook his head. ‘No. She
said
she was doing a perspective sketch of the library.’ He flushed. ‘I…I’m sorry, Max. I wasn’t exactly welcoming, you know.’ He swallowed. ‘In fact, that last time I was damned rude to her.’

Max just nodded. His conscience felt raw. Verity had tried so very hard to breach the wall he’d set between them and he’d rebuffed every shy overture.

He’d been polite, distant, always addressing her formally with the utmost consideration. Even when he snubbed her. But she had kept right on trying. Until that time in the garden when her temper had finally snapped. Swallowing, he faced what he’d done: he’d told her that she was unwelcome in her own home. Verity—who had once told him she wanted to belong again, not to be always apart. He hadn’t seen her
since. Literally. She might have ceased to exist for all he knew. The thought lacerated him. She had wanted to belong. On any terms. Even as his mistress.

His distance. His sanity. At all costs. Only…he’d never realised
she
would bear the cost.

Mrs Henty informed him that her ladyship had taken a picnic and gone for a walk straight after breakfast. That she’d given orders a few days previously that she would dine in her rooms until further notice.

He winced at that bit of information. He knew precisely on which day those orders had been given.