My Three Masters (2 page)

“Yes, milady,” said Miranda absently, catching a drop of tea
on her fingertip before it stained the lace of the coverlet.

The Marquise grabbed her wrist. “Do you hear me? He’ll take
care of you. He’ll be your master. Him.” She indicated Gerard with a graceful
motion of her head. Abruptly, Miranda straightened. Appalled brown eyes
swiveled his direction. Hot tea cascaded over the edge of the dish. The
Marquise’s gasp echoed through the sudden stillness.

“
Him
?
”

Gerard inclined his head with his most sardonic air. “A
promise is a promise.”

Beaumont House—The Marquise’s dressing room

Lying awake at night in a state of worry wasn’t unusual for
me. Ever since I’d run away from my guardian, the Vicious Viscount—as I called
him—I’d encountered one dangerous situation after another, each more dire than
the next. The Marquise had seemed to be a reprieve, as unlikely as that seems.
I knew she was a bitter, horrible woman. I knew she derived enjoyment from the
suffering of others. I knew some sort of monstrous pain infected her soul. But
once I began caring for her, she became my patient and I ceased to pass judgment
upon her. We’d got on fairly well, all in all.

But could it be that she’d been storing all her cruelty for
one final act?

The notorious Marquis de Beaumont—my
master
?

In the dark, my face burned as I recalled some of the
Marquise’s stories about her husband. At Eton he’d been caught in bed with
three students and a professor—at the same time. He was equally voracious with
men and women, and his sexual appetites knew no bounds. He’d once kidnapped
another man’s mistress, chained her in a dungeon and tormented her until she
crawled to him on her knees, begging for his… I blushed even to think it. How
she could crawl when she was chained, I failed to see. On occasion I would
wonder if all the Marquise’s stories were true. But it was not my place to question.
If I questioned, she might stop her tales, and that… I couldn’t bear.

I’m ashamed to admit that I lived for those stories.
Shocking and titillating though they were, when I crawled into my tiny cot in
my mistress’s dressing room, I thought of nothing else. It was as if I were
transported into another world. A dungeon, perhaps, where I hung helplessly in
chains, my arms stretched overhead, my naked body exposed to the ruthless black
gaze of the devil himself. With that sardonic twist of his mouth I’d come to
know, he’d come closer, closer, then he’d lift one gloved hand, touch his
finger to my nipple and a shivery sensation would sing through me. I’d sag
against the chains, panting and begging for… I knew not what.

I’d sneak my hand between my legs, where my fingers would
dip into a soft, liquid slipperiness. There was a spot there, just there. If I
rubbed it a certain way, a seed of a feeling would blaze to life. My heart
would begin to pound, my breath come fast, and soon joy would shriek through me.
As I arched and held my hand tight against my throbbing body, the horror of the
world would disappear.

Maybe it was wrong—it probably was wrong—but when everything
has been ripped away from you, such considerations don’t carry much weight.

The Marquis hadn’t left Beaumont House. He’d decided to stay
the night. Servants always know such things, and I would have known in any
case. The very air felt different when he was present. Even now, I felt his
dark existence pulling me as if it were some magnetic force. How could I work
for him when he unsettled me so? It would be impossible.

The solution was simple. I had to tell him that I had no
intention of entering his household. And I had no reason to wait another
moment. The Marquis was a notorious night owl. No doubt he was in the billiards
room or perhaps the library.

I rose to my feet and drew on the simple brown homespun
dress I wore over my shift. I left off my pattens as they made too much noise
for the quiet nighttime household. I stole through my mistress’s room and ran
silently down the stairs.

I didn’t have to search far. The door to the library was
slightly ajar and firelight flickered within. I tiptoed to the door and peered
in. The Marquis sat sprawled in a leather armchair squarely in front of the hearth.
He must have asked a footman to move it, or perhaps he’d done so himself, the
unpredictable man. One hand dangled to the side, a snifter of brandy held
carelessly in its loose grip. I wondered if he was asleep, or merely in his
cups.

That question was answered soon enough.

“Who’s there?” he drawled thickly, the “s” and the “th”
melding together on his tongue.

In his cups, most decidedly.

Cautiously I came closer. I’d seen the Marquis in a drunken
state before, and I knew he didn’t become threatening. But he was always a man
of whom to be wary. “It is I, Miss Brown, your wife’s nurse.”

“Miranda,” he murmured, and I knew a moment of shock that he
knew my given name. “Don’t lurk behind me. Come around here.” He gestured with
his glass.

I approached him the way one might a wild boar. Step by
step, he guided me to the spot where he wanted me, which was right in front of
him, between the man and the fireplace. Warmth from the low fire caressed my
back. Heat from the Marquis’ gaze scorched my front.

He regarded me with black, heavy-lidded eyes. I wasn’t
accustomed to such scrutiny. Most people barely saw me—a plain, inconsequential
servant in brown. A heavy sensation weighed down my limbs, and for a long
moment I forgot why I’d come.

“So I’m to be your new master,” he said, one side of his
mouth curling in a mocking half-smile.

Yes, that’s what it was, the topic I’d come to discuss. I
opened my mouth, but he forestalled me.

“I have many bad habits,
chérie
, but employing
innocents has never been one of them. Something will have to be done.”

The fact that I’d thought precisely the same thing fled my
mind. “I believe I’d make an excellent employee.”

He smiled, that glittering, complicated smirk for which he
was famous. “I have no doubt. I’ve seen how loyally you’ve served my wife. But
would you be such a faithful servant to one such as myself? Perhaps you know my
reputation.”

Color flooded my face. I knew his reputation perhaps better
than he did himself. I was fascinated by it.

Once, in a moment of spectacular boldness, I’d asked the
Marquise why she’d married him if he was so sinful. She laughed until she began
to cough and I had to fetch her some mullein. When the spasms died down, she
answered, “We were two of a kind, or so I thought. But the bastard disappointed
me. He left me in hell, all alone.”

Had she banned her husband from her bed? I never once
witnessed any moment of physical intimacy between them. I never saw him enter
her bedchamber before that final conversation. Why did she allow so many others
to partake of her favors when she denied them to her rightful husband? The
husband whose bedroom exploits provided fodder for a thousand stories during
the year I cared for her. The husband who haunted my dreams and made that place
between my legs burn with need.

I put my hands to my scalding cheeks. “Yes,” I admitted
stiffly.

“And yet you’re still willing to enter my household?”

No. Of course I wasn’t. That was why I’d ventured into the
library. But I found myself nodding. He shifted his legs so his knee brushed against
my dress. His head tilted backward so it rested on the russet leather chair
back. He looked utterly disreputable, and utterly fascinating. “I’m not sure I
believe you.”

I said naught. I felt guilty, as though I’d been caught in a
lie.

“I’m afraid I’ll require some proof.”

“Proof?”

“Proof that you’re fit to work for me. I require a certain
ease with one’s sexual nature. I cannot have prudes in my house. Are you a
prude, Miss Miranda Brown?”

The diabolical glitter in his eyes made my knees weaken. This
was how I’d always imagined him in my midnight fantasies. For a wild moment, I
wondered if I was dreaming this whole encounter. I swayed from side to side.

“My dear, you look a bit faint,” said the Marquis. “Perhaps
you should lean against that mantel behind you.”

I glanced behind me. A beautiful rose marble mantelpiece
protruded from above the hearth. My mistress had a taste for ornate Italian
design. I could comfortably lean my shoulders against it, but that would take
me farther away from the Marquis, and I discovered I didn’t want that. I shook
my head.

“Then come here and stand between my legs. I promise to keep
you upright.” He said the word “upright” with light irony, as if referring to
more than my stance.

I stared at him with wide eyes. Perhaps now was the time to
tell him I wouldn’t work for him. Couldn’t work for him. Instead, I took a step
forward, then another, until I stood between his two long legs clad in fine
garnet velvet. His boots shone in the light of the fire. His waistcoat was slightly
open, his cravat hanging to one side. His dark hair fell over his forehead in
unruly waves. I’d never seen the impeccable Marquis in such disarray.

“Are you quite all right, milord? Shall I fetch a tonic for
you?”

“Don’t waste your worry on me. I’m merely drinking to my
soon-to-be late wife.” He raised his glass and swallowed more brandy. “Besides,
I don’t want you to leave yet. I still haven’t gotten my proof yet.”

“Really, milord—”

“It’s nothing overly difficult. It won’t take long, the
matter of a mere moment.”

Excited chills raced up my spine. What was he referring to?
The way he was speaking, and watching me with those lazy black eyes, it had to
be naughty. Again I swayed, but he caught me between his strong legs. Through
my dress, through his velvet breeches, I felt the heat of him, and it made my
head swim as if I’d been drinking the brandy. “Wh…what?” I whispered.

“Let me look at you.”

He
was
looking at me. Closely. Heatedly. Confusingly.
“But, sir, you are—”

“Lift your dress.”

The quiet words dropped into the library like stones into a
well.
Lift my dress
.
The Marquis wanted me to expose my private
area to him. And that very region of my body seemed to pulsate with the desire
to do just that. Heat tingled between my legs. I stared at him, feeling flushed
and chilled in alternating waves.

He stared back and I knew his message. If I wanted to
leave—the library or his employ—now would be the perfect moment to do so.
Should I choose to remain, well, the dark promise in his wicked face left no
doubt that I’d be traveling down a road to new sensual horizons.

The silence held us for long, prickling moments. Only the
fire intruded, its crackle echoing the tumult inside me.

Then I lowered my hands to my thighs and grasped the drab
homespun of my dress. He relaxed his legs, giving me room. I bunched up the
material, drawing the hem off the floor. Slowly, inch by inch, I raised it,
feeling the fire-warmed air touch my ankles, then my calves, then my knees. I
watched the Marquis devour each new discovery with his hungry gaze. Surely this
must be a dream. Surely I wasn’t disrobing in front of the most notorious rake
in London.

Under that insistent, avaricious gaze, I didn’t stop until
half my thighs were exposed. Then I paused.

“Oh no,” said the Marquis in a roughened voice. “You’re not
to stop there. Such shapely and tender flesh I see displayed before me, as if a
Greek nymph has invaded my library and decided to torment me with her beauty.
Pray continue.”

Beauty! It had been so many years since anyone had used such
a word with me. It was nearly as seductive as the lustful cast of his dark
features, the dusky flush on his cheeks.

A sense of power swept through me. At this moment, the
Marquis was at my mercy. I piled more bunches of fabric into my hands and
raised my dress, and my shift along with it, to my waist. I was bare beneath
it. Air stirred the small thatch of curls that hid my secrets. I squeezed my
eyes shut, taking refuge in blessed darkness. But I could still sense his
heated gaze homing in on my nether regions.

My belly clenched with fierce excitement. I felt moisture
rise between my legs. I shifted from one foot to the other in an agony of
anticipation.

“I’m going to touch you now,” he said firmly.

I nodded, even though he hadn’t asked my permission. I knew
that if I wanted to, I could drop my skirts and flee. But I’d been waiting so
long for his touch, so many sleepless nights had I envisioned a scene much like
this one. I drew in a breath and waited for what seemed an eternity.

Then a finger lit on the very spot that cried out for
release. I jumped and nearly let go of my skirts.

“Easy now,” he murmured. “Just as I suspected. You’re so
slick and satiny. How I’d love to lick you until you scream.”

Lick me?
My hands trembled.

“Not to mention all the other things I have in mind.” He ran
his hands over my thighs, my hipbones and the quivering valley between them.
“But I shouldn’t mention those to such innocent ears as yours.” He returned his
hand to my mound and slid his thumb across the place that made me jump.

“Do you ever touch yourself here?”

I squeezed my eyes closed even tighter. How had he known
that?

“I see that you do. So you know what marvelous thing will
happen if I keep rubbing your dainty little clitoris.”

So that’s what it was called.

“Has any man ever touched you here? Be truthful now.” He
pinched my “clitoris” and I gave a muffled squeal at the piercing pleasure of
it.

“No.”

“A virgin, through and through. The possibilities are
entrancing.” The motion of his thumb increased. I staggered but he held me
steady with his other hand. “I want to see you come, right here in front of me.
It will be my first act as your master. Do you understand me?”

I gasped at the change in his voice, from soothing to
commanding. I nodded quickly. I’d heard the term “come” in the Marquise’s
bedchamber, but I’d never been entirely sure what it referred to. Whatever it
was, I was beyond denying him anything. My limbs shook as bright waves of
feeling rippled from my head to my toes. My body seemed to have taken the helm,
refusing to listen to my better judgment. Hunger and a sort of avid curiosity
ruled me. I wanted more, I wanted him, I wanted the feelings he was arousing so
expertly.