Rules for Being a Mistress (31 page)

He had moved away from her.

“No,” he said gently. “You’re not.”

“I am,” she insisted. “Ben, I love you. I’m ready. I swear it.”

“You are not ready, my girl,” he said firmly. “Not yet.”

He slipped to his knees between her thighs. Her hips jerked in protest as his breath caressed her inner thighs.

“Why don’t you just take me?”

He replied with a caress. It was like the first time all over again. She did not mean to squirm; she could not seem to control her own body. Even as he caressed the soft lips, her body closed against him in a tight ring, as if determined to keep its virginity forever. He tried to enter her with a finger, but even that her body would not permit. There seemed no possible way to enter her without rending the tender flesh. Her thighs tightened convulsively at his every approach, and her hands tugged at his hair. She wanted him, she swore she wanted him, but her body betrayed nothing but fear and anxiety.

“I’m sorry, Ben,” she said, tearfully. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he answered, lowering his head until it rested on her belly. “You’re perfect.” He caressed her gently, stroking the soft hair until she would at least allow him this without tensing up. He was patient. Little by little, the muscles relaxed, and finally, her defenses collapsed utterly. He could go anywhere, touch anything. She bit back her moans, biting her lip to keep her mouth locked. She was ashamed that he was having to work so hard.

Probably his other women had never made him work so hard.

She covered her face with her hands as he probed her gently, then slid his tongue between the soft lips.

The first trickle of honey was the sweetest. Salty and fragrant, it penetrated the buds of his tongue and whet his appetite. He caressed her with his mouth until she moaned. Her hands fell away from her eyes, and blindly her fingers caught at his hair. Her body began to move in rhythm with him. The warm, silky wetness that lay deep within her began to flow at last as he carried her slowly and deliberately up the heights of pleasure. As she peaked, sighing softly, he tried to enter her again with his finger. Her flesh quivered in response but did not defend itself.

“Please…” she murmured, still hiding behind her hands. “I can’t take any more.”

He stood, unbelted his robe, and placed himself at the soft entrance between her thighs. His own body was clamoring for release, but he took her gently, by degrees, giving her time to become accustomed to his size before he inconvenienced her with his entire length. “Wrap your legs around me,” he told her as he prepared for the first real thrust.

Almost in disbelief, she felt her body part for him. The momentary discomfort was nothing compared to the pain she had feared, and the pleasure of having him inside her was incredible. She had not expected to feel any pleasure for herself at all. Sexual intercourse, as far as she knew, was something that men took from women for their own pleasure. Women endured it for love of the man, but for no other reason. To hear her brothers describe it, it was a crude and violent act. Not so, she was discovering. It was another caress, deeper and more binding than any other caress, more serious and frightening, but no other touch compared to the pleasure of this full, unfettered possession. As he touched the final barrier between them, she began to weep with emotion, not pain, and as he broke through her maidenhead, she came undone, clasping him as close to her as she could. He lay within her, rigid.

“Are you all right, my darling?” he whispered.

“Yes, I think I’m all right,” she answered. Unbelievable but true. She was fine.

Pinned to the bed, she felt suddenly free. His dressing gown served as a blanket, and under its cover she felt bold enough to slide her hands along his slim body, her fingers combing through the thick hair on his torso. Propping himself up on the stump of his right arm, he filled her completely, his left hand on her breast. Together they looked down at where their bodies had joined. He kissed her lips then, plundering her mouth with his tongue as he had plundered her body with his manhood. “I can feel you inside me,” she said in wonder as he broke the kiss. “Why do men think they possess women?” she asked him very seriously. “It’s so obvious that women possess men. You’re mine now.”

He groaned softly.

At first, she did not understand that he moved away from her merely for the pleasure of possessing her again, but she learned quickly. It was like a dance; they moved apart only for the pleasure of drawing deeper together. Faster and faster it went, until she felt herself on the very keenest edge of pleasure again. But before she went over the edge, he suddenly left her completely. He got up from the bed and went into his dressing room.

Cold air slapped her body. Stunned and dismayed, she rolled herself up in the coverlet of his bed and wept. He returned shortly, his robe belted neatly. He was smiling at her.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked, confused.

“You were perfect,” he assured her. “You make me wish I had two hands.”

Relief flooded through her veins. She smiled back at him, proud and shy at the same time. “Aren’t you glad you have one, though?”

He laughed, throwing himself down beside her on the bed. He wondered if it would be too selfish of him to take her again. He had not observed any blood on his member when he went to relieve himself, but her thin body must be bruised and sore. It would be unkind to abuse her generosity. Another time, when she was used to such exercise, he would take her repeatedly, or, at least, as much as pleased them both. For now, he was content caressing her little breasts, coaxing the bright pink nipples erect between his fingers. She snuggled up against him, warm, contented, and drowsy.

“Ben?” she asked him suddenly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were Irish? I’d not have made you wait so long.”

“I’m not Irish,” he answered, sounding puzzled.

She lifted her head to look at him. “But I thought—! Your mother—?”

“My mother? My mother was
born
in Ireland, but she never considered herself Irish.”

She frowned. “What part of Ireland?” she wanted to know.

“Oranmore. Her father was Lord Oranmore.”

She had to sit up. “Oh, God!” she said staring. “It’s true, then! You’re one of those black-hearted Redmunds from County Oranmore, aren’t you? They do say that the father of the first Redmund was the devil himself.”

“My mother was a lovely woman,” he protested.

“If I had known you were a Redmund,” she said, shaking her head, “I would have conquered my lust and abstained entirely!”

She looked at him thoughtfully. “Too late now, I suppose.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Much. The die is cast. The deed is done.”

“The dirty deed,” she corrected him. “Will we do it again sometime, do you think?” she asked, tangling her fingers in the soft hair of his chest.

“Yes. When you’re feeling up to it, of course,” he added chivalrously.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Feeling up to it? You think you’ve worn me out? Is that it?”

He smiled smugly. “Haven’t I?”

“Devil a bit!” she said, pushing him onto his back. “If anybody’s worn out, ’tis yourself.”

He laughed. “Nonsense, my girl. I went easy on you, because it was your first time.”

“Is that so?” she said, pinning him down. “Well, it’s not my first time
now.
”

In a trice, he reversed their positions on the bed and took full possession of her loins in one stroke. “You’re going to regret this in the morning,” he murmured.

“Not me,” she answered recklessly. “I could go all night.”

This time, he made no attempt to withdraw from her body to avoid conception. He had no seed left to spill. He was utterly drained. “Come to London with me,” he panted as they came to rest. “Come to London, and I will give you anything you want.”

“And do what there?” she asked gently. “Be your mistress?”

“You already are,” he pointed out.

She became angry. “Mistress, indeed! We’re lovers now, Ben. I’m not your mistress, and you’re not my keeper. I won’t be going to London with you. Understand that.”

“Why not? We can be together there.”

She began looking for her clothes. “Aye! When it suits you. The rest of the time, I’d be—Well, what exactly
would
I be doing while you’re making speeches in Parliament and making love to your wife?”

“I’m not married.”

“You will be,” she answered. “That’s what you came to Bath for, isn’t it? And you couldn’t marry me, of course. You’d be a laughingstock if you married a girl like me.”

“No,” he said slowly. “Not a laughingstock.”

“But you can’t marry me.” She laughed suddenly. “Don’t worry! I’m not going to make a scene like your crazy governess.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I do love you, you know. It’s the way of the world.”

“Right,” she said. “Besides, what makes you think I want to marry you anyway? Sure I don’t even like you. I’ll be your lover until the day you marry another. Hopefully, by then, I’ll have you out of my system.”

“I have to marry,” he said. “It needn’t change anything between us.”

She pulled away from him. “I won’t be your partner in adultery, Ben,” she said coldly. “It’s a terrible sin, and I won’t do it.”

“Sin!” For a moment, he looked contemptuous. He was not religious, and he did not believe in sin. “You don’t seem to mind fornicating with me. Is that not a sin?”

“I know it is!” she said angrily. “I can’t help making a fool of
myself,
but I’ll be damned if I help you make a fool of your wife. God will forgive me for the sins I can’t help. I’m young! I’ve plenty of time to repent from a youthful indiscretion. Adultery is another matter entirely.”

“You’re babbling. Come to London with me,” he commanded.

She smiled at him sadly. “No. I can’t leave my family, Ben.”

“Even though they lock you in the attic and make you cut your hair?”

“Don’t spoil it,” she begged. “I’ve been in love with you for weeks, and for weeks I’ve been a virgin in my body only, for thinking of you. I’m not sorry for what I’ve done, but I won’t go to London with you, so don’t ask.”

She left the room to finish dressing.

Benedict sat down on the edge of the bed with his back to her. He was still sitting there when she returned dressed in his clothes. “Shall I come tomorrow?” she asked softly.

“If you wish,” he said stiffly.

“I
do
wish. I love you. You believe me, don’t you?”

He got up from the bed. “Do you need money?”

The color drained from her face. “Ben! How can you even—”

“To show Nora, of course,” he said quickly.

“Oh!” She shook her head. “There will be no hiding it from Nora,” she said ruefully.

She was right. Nora was waiting in the hall to confront her when she got home. “So you’ve done it, then?” the Irishwoman said in a harsh whisper.

“I have,” Cosima said calmly.

“And you, with your mother dying in this house! Cavorting with himself like a trollop!”

Cosima felt the first stab of guilt. “Is Mother all right?” she cried.

“She’s fine,” said Nora, relenting. “Sleeping like a baby.”

Cosy turned on her savagely. “You scared the life out of me, Nora!”

“You deserve to have the life scared out of you,” Nora replied. “Out fornicating all night while your mother—”

“Is sleeping like a baby!” said Cosima. “You know where I am, if I’m needed. You know where I am, and you know who I’m with, and you know what I’m doing, and I don’t care!”

Nora gaped at her. “You’re not going back?”

Nora had no inkling that intercourse with a man might be even vaguely pleasant, let alone worth risking one’s immortal soul.

Cosima lifted her chin. “I am, woman, and if you try to stop me, woe betide you. I love him, Nora, and he loves me.”

“You love him? He loves you?” Nora was bewildered.

“I didn’t think you’d understand,” Cosima said coldly. “Good night, Nora.”

By Thursday, the word had spread throughout Bath that Miss Vaughn would at last be attending a ball. As there were only two cotillions to be danced, competition for her hand was fierce among the gentlemen. Lord Redfylde, having claimed the right to open the ball with the Irish beauty, withdrew discreetly to watch the melee.

Every man in Bath wanted to dance with her, and, as Lord Redfylde gazed at her through his quizzing glass, it was not difficult for him to see why. In her white gauze dress, she was the closest thing to an angel he had ever seen. It fitted her slender body to perfection; no one would ever have guessed it had originally been made for another woman. The sight pierced even his wicked heart, something he had not thought possible. His mind was quite made up. She would be envied by all women, and he would be envied by all men.

They were perfect for one another.

“Behold, your new sister,” he told Serena almost giddily. “How will you like curtseying to the former Miss Vaughn?”

Serena stiffened. “She is
Irish,
my lord. Have you thought of that?”

He shrugged. “What of it? They are prodigious breeders, I believe. She will give me strong, healthy sons. Your sister,” he added maliciously, “never managed that, for all she was a fine English lady. Caroline was weak. Only seven pregnancies in ten years.”

His three eldest children, all female, were either dead or married.

“Think of your children, my lord,” Serena urged him.

He sneered. “I would give my daughters, all, back to God in exchange for one healthy son. Besides, the little ones adore her.”

Serena struggled to keep calm. The depth of her hatred for the man would only amuse his lordship, and make her humiliation taste the sweeter. “In that case, I wish you happy.”

He smiled, watching his future marchioness as she deftly kept all her would-be lovers at arm’s length. She did it so graciously, too, without making enemies of them. “I shall be the envy of every man I know,” he said happily.

“She is thin! What makes you think she will give you children?”

“Blood,” he answered simply.

“Blood!” Serena protested. “Look at her mother! The woman is a fright!”

Lady Agatha was seated at some distance away, looking around her with feverishly bright eyes. Dr. Grantham was again attending to her ladyship; his bill was going to be enormous. Redfylde did not need to look at Lady Agatha. Her heavily painted face, her red wig, her wizened body, were all as repellent to Lord Redfylde as they were to Serena.

“It is unfortunate that Lady Agatha suffered the pox as a child,” he said. “However, it is very telling that, despite her frailty, she managed to bear three sons, all of whom grew up to be soldiers. When I marry the daughter, I will put the mother out of the way, perhaps at my Lincolnshire estate. She will never be seen again.” He smiled at her. “I did not realize you disliked Miss Vaughn so much.”

Serena looked away. She knew that smile. Redfylde enjoyed causing her any kind of discomfort. He reveled in her humiliation. And she would be humiliated if Cosima took her sister’s place as Marchioness of Redfylde. “I am only trying to spare your lordship the embarrassment of having such a wife,” she sniffed.

Redfylde yawned. “If only you had been so conscientious before I married Caroline!”

“I was a child when you married Caroline,” she said.

“But such an eager child,” he said. “You remind me of Miss Allegra Vaughn.”

Having made sure that Lady Agatha was supplied with a glass of punch, Benedict approached Serena just as Lord Redfylde excused himself to claim his partner for the first cotillion. “You are not dancing this evening, Sir Benedict?” she said, fanning herself.

She was caught, she realized, between a rock and a hard place.

And there was not a hero in sight.

“How very observant you are,” he replied curtly, then regretted it. It was not Serena’s fault he had been so unwise as to fall in love with a girl who did not exist in the eyes of the world. Rather than invigorating him, the affair seemed to be draining his strength little by little. He was hollow-eyed and exhausted. He could not marry Cherry, and she stubbornly refused to become his mistress. She called it being lovers, for she was young and foolish. He was older and wiser. To him it was hell.

But it was not Serena’s fault, and it was un-gentlemanlike to take it out on her.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Would you care to dance?”

“I am content to watch the others,” she replied.

“I see Ludham has not quite given up on Miss Vaughn,” the gentleman observed presently. “Did she grant him the second cotillion, do you think?”

“That I do not know,” Serena said. “But he
will
give up on her after tonight. They all will. My foolish brother-in-law has decided to marry her. There’s no stopping it, I’m afraid. He knows she is Kellynch’s niece, not his mistress. He is rich enough not to care that she is portionless. Her beauty is to be her dowry. Her beauty and her womb. He is persuaded that she will bear him strong, healthy sons. There’s no reasoning with him.”

“I see.” Benedict was thinking rapidly. How would this development in Miss Vaughn’s life affect his own relationship with Cherry? That was his only concern. Would Cherry be more likely to accept his offer of a home in London when her half-sister became Lady Redfylde? Surely Miss Vaughn would not want such a beautiful girl living with her and her new husband?

Lord Redfylde, meanwhile, was enjoying the beauty of his partner almost as much as he was enjoying the envious stares of the other men. “To whom did you grant the second cotillion, my dear?” he asked Cosima. “They all looked so eager. Who is the lucky man?”

Cosima had a fair view of her mother, though it varied as the movement of the dance changed her position. No one was talking to Lady Agatha, not even Dr. Grantham, who was standing behind her ladyship’s chair.

“I trust you will not dance with Ludham,” Redfylde went on. “He may be next to me in rank, but he has an unsightly harelip.”

Cosima glanced at her partner. Occasionally, Lord Redfylde made comments that she thought beneath him, and she had to remind herself of his many kindnesses to her family. “I’d rather have a harelip than a hare-brain, wouldn’t you?” she reproached him gently.

“Poor Ludham! He seems to have both.”

“Lord Ludham has been very kind to me,” said Cosima stiffly.

Redfylde frowned at her; she seemed almost to be arguing with him.

Looking back at her mother, Cosima saw to her dismay that Lady Agatha had spilled her punch. Dr. Grantham, who was standing behind Lady Agatha’s chair, did not seem to be aware of the small mishap. Cosima was about to leave her partner and dash over to her mother when, suddenly, Sir Benedict appeared at her mother’s side, his handkerchief at the ready.

Cosima relaxed. “I’m sorry,” she said, returning her attention to her partner. “What were you saying, my lord?”

The Marquess of Redfylde was not used to being ignored. Quite the opposite, in fact. If this sort of thing continued to happen, he would be obliged to discipline Miss Vaughn—after they were married, of course. “I simply wondered whom you selected for the second cotillion, my dear,” he said, smiling pleasantly.

“I was thinking I’d dance with…Sir Benedict Wayborn,” she said, her green eyes twinkling with mischief, “if he’ll have me.”

Lord Redfylde looked at her in disbelief.

“Sir Benedict Wayborn?” he repeated. “The cripple?”

He began to laugh.

Cosima glared at him until he stopped.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Vaughn. I did not mean to offend you. But you have
two
cousins in Bath, I believe. I would rather see you dance with Westlands.
He
will do you credit.”

“Marcus is engaged to Lady Rose,” she said primly. “They make a charming couple, don’t you think?”

“When do they marry?”

“I don’t believe there’s a date certain as yet,” she said vaguely.

“I don’t approve of long engagements,” said his lordship. “What is the delay, if a man knows what he wants? Will you be going to London for the wedding?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Cosima. “Mother’s health…”

“I would prefer to be married from Westminster, of course,” he said, “but I daresay Bath Abbey will do in a pinch.”

“Oh?” said Cosima. “Are you getting married?”

He smiled magnanimously. “Yes, I have decided to marry you, Miss Vaughn. You are a very fortunate young woman, indeed. You will be the envy of all your sex. Cosima,” he added softly. “Cosima, Marchioness of Redfylde. Redfylde’s marchioness. Lady Redfylde. How do you like the sound of that, my dear?”

“Oh, God,” Cosima breathed. Her face was the color of ashes. Rose had warned her that the lonely widower was falling in love, but she hadn’t listened.

Redfylde was pleased by her reaction. It showed the proper humility, he thought. The other couples assembled for the dance were staring at them. He welcomed their stares as his due.

“I would like to be married as soon as possible,” he said, perhaps a little too loudly. “I have already obtained the special license. I’ve spoken to the Bishop of Bath and Wells. We can be married tomorrow, if you like.”

“I’m going to have to stop you right there,” Cosy whispered rapid-fire. She was acutely aware that they were now the center of all attention in the room. “I’m so sorry! I can’t marry you, my lord. Oh, God! I should have listened to Rose, of all people.”

“Rose?” he said sharply, turning to eye that young lady, who was standing but two feet from Cosima. Rose looked back at him wide-eyed. “What has she to do with this?”

Cosima’s ashen face slowly turned red. She hung her head contritely. “She tried to warn me. But I thought you were too high-and-mighty to ever bother yourself about me! I vow to God, I hadn’t a clue your intentions were honorable! I thought you were only flirting with me, my lord.” She bit her lip. “I’m truly and deeply honored that you would even think of me in that way, and I really love your children. I know you’ve been kind to us, and Allie just adores you, but…I can’t marry you. I don’t love you. I’m sorry. Sorrier than I can ever tell.”

She actually means to refuse me,
Redfylde thought in disbelief.
A penniless Irish nobody!
Only a fool would refuse such an advantageous offer.
She must be insane,
he decided.

Twelve couples had lined up for the set, men on one side, ladies on the other. Redfylde sensed that they were all laughing at him, that they could hardly wait to go forth to all the nations and spread the word of his humiliation. Redfylde’s disbelief turned to blind rage.

Rose had not overheard everything, but she had heard enough. She began to giggle. “She won’t have him,” she communicated to Miss Carteret, who had not been able to quite hear. “Redfylde has asked Miss Vaughn to marry him, but she won’t have him!”

“Good heavens!” cried Miss Carteret. “She must be mad.”

Rose’s partner began to laugh, too. “Marcus, for God’s sake,” Cosima hissed at him, but that only seemed to make the young man laugh harder.

“Serves him right,” Westlands said, unfeelingly. “The man’s old enough to be your father, Cosy! He had the insufferable conceit to presume that you would have him just because he’s rich and he has a title! She don’t love you, Redflyde! She can’t stand the sight of you. She only felt sorry for you because you’re a widower with four little brats with runny noses and dirty nappies. It was pity, my lord. Pity!”

“Marcus!” cried Cosima, but she might as well have been admonishing a rabid dog.

Lord Redfylde glared at everyone. “This isn’t over, Miss Vaughn,” he rasped.