Rules for Being a Mistress (34 page)

He paused because she had cried out.

“Please,” she begged. She looked at him in the mirror and deliberately pushed her backside against him. After that, he took no notice of her cries. The more violent he became, the more excited she was. More than once he watched her face melt in pleasure as he drove into her. After the initial gasp of surprise, not one word of protest did she utter. Quite the reverse. She pleaded, she begged, she beseeched him to rend her. He would never have dreamed she could be so strong. Wrapped tightly in the black satin dress, her slender body seemed invincible. He was the more vulnerable, completely naked, completely a slave to his desires.

“I love you,” she gasped as he drove into her for the last time. He looked at her beautiful face in the mirror. Her smile was serene. Then he could no longer see. His climax blinded him. He made no attempt to pull out this time, instead filling the furrow with his seed.

It no longer mattered if there was a child. In two months or less, he would marry Miss Vaughn and Cherry’s children would have a secure place in the world. He wanted a child. He wanted dozens, as many as her unbelievable body could give him.

They collapsed to the floor tangled together. As he slowly returned to himself, he was ashamed, ashamed that he had used her so violently on the floor of his dressing room. The sight of her in that black dress had driven him almost insane with desire, but that was no excuse for battering her so cruelly.

“I was a beast. Forgive me,” he murmured despondently.

“I don’t think I can,” she responded. “You should have taken me like that weeks ago, you cruel bastard.” To his amazement, she laughed.

As they lay on the floor, she began to stroke his arm. Not his left arm, but his right arm, even the seam at the base of the elbow, where the surgeons had done their work. She stroked it as if it were any other part of him, and it felt good. This was acceptance, love, untainted by pity. Cherry loved him, and desired him, too, just as he was.

He would never let her go. He would die first.

“I will be so beastly to Serena that she refuses me within a week, I swear,” he said.

He could feel her mouth moving over him, but he was too sated to even open his eyes. “Are you going to be beastly to me as well?” she asked, laughing softly.

But she was too sore for him to be beastly. When he tried to enter her again, she howled like a wounded animal. “Come,” he said simply, helping her up from the floor.

He opened a door, and showed her the big, steaming Roman bath on the other side. It hissed like the devil. He had to go in first to demonstrate that it was safe before she would commit so much as a toe, but finally she pulled off the black dress and followed him into what looked to her like the mouth of hell. The hot water burned her skin all over, especially the wound between her legs. In a little while, though, it burned away all the pain.

They sat together on the bottom step, water up to their shoulders, and burned.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too,” he answered.

“I think,” said Lady Rose Fitzwilliam to her partner as they were waltzing in her mother’s drawing-room, “that Miss Vaughn must be in love with you, Marcus. Why else would she refuse an offer from the Marquess of Redfylde?”

It was a week after Lord Redfylde’s abrupt departure from Bath.

Westlands looked smug. He suspected as much himself, and he rather enjoyed hearing the words spoken aloud. “Of course, she is in love with me,” he said proudly. “She has been in love with me since she was a child, poor girl. I gave her her first kiss.”

Rose shivered. She could still feel her first kiss. Dante Vaughn, the blond god of love, had given it to her, behind a curtain at Lady Arbuthnot’s ball.

A few feet away, Lord Ludham was patiently teaching Miss Vaughn the waltz. Miss Vaughn had never waltzed before, and she needed the practice for the ball Lady Matlock was giving in honor of her daughter’s betrothal. They had only been practicing a few days, but already poor Miss Vaughn was limping. It was as if she had been engaged for hours in some extreme activity that had left her body painfully sore. She could scarcely move.

Millicent glided by in the arms of Roger Fitzwilliam. She had persuaded him to change his scent and he had promised to quit smoking. At first Miss Carteret had balked at attending the waltzing sessions at Lady Matlock’s. “I already know how to waltz,” she had protested, pouting. “I waltz very well.”

“You must pretend not to,” her mama instructed. “Men love teaching women how to do this and that. It makes them feel masterful. So you must always pretend to be ignorant, Millie.”

“I think,” Millicent sniffed now, “Miss Vaughn is only pretending to be ignorant in order to keep dancing with his lordship.”

“I think,” Lord Westlands said, “she needs a better partner.”

He wondered if it would be thought odd if he left Rose to teach his cousin the waltz. Ludham was obviously making balls of it.

As he was just deciding against it Sir Benedict Wayborn suddenly left his partner, Lady Serena, and cut Lord Ludham out.

Rather than pretend he was holding her left hand in his nonexistent right, Cosima simply placed both her hands on his shoulders. “There,” Benedict said, pleased with himself. “That ought to make her ladyship angry enough to refuse me.”

The tips of her breasts tingled as always at the sound of his voice.

“I have been a perfect beast to her for the last week, and still she won’t give me an answer. Stop fighting me, Miss Vaughn,” he added crossly as she stumbled against him. “Yield when I advance.”

It took her a moment to realize he was referring to the dance. “In your dreams,” she said. “You must have me confused with that redhead of yours.”

“Believe me, Miss Vaughn, there is no confusion. The one is sweet and generous, and the other is cold and heartless.”

She raised a brow. “If that’s how you feel, maybe you should marry
her,
instead of me.”

“We both know that is not possible.”

She watched Serena whirling around the room in the arms of Lord Ludham. “Have you said at least
three
beastly things to her today?” she asked sullenly.

“Certainly I did. I told her I despise women who dye their hair. I told her her maid is prettier than she is. And I declared my intention of waltzing with every
young
woman at Lady Matlock’s ball.”

“You’re a cold hard bastard,” said Miss Vaughn. “No wonder she loves you so much.”

The butler drifted into the room and spoke quietly to Lady Matlock, who was languidly fanning herself on a sofa as her guests danced. “What!” she cried, jumping up like a young gazelle and clapping her hands for the musicians to stop.

The butler then addressed the company at large. “His Grace, the Duke of Kellynch.”

“Bollocks,” Cosima whispered, her grip tightening on Benedict’s shoulders as her father’s half-brother lumbered into the room. Kellynch’s dark eyes widened appreciatively in his puffy, red face, then narrowed, as he saw the partner she was still embracing.

Benedict calmly disentangled himself.

Lady Matlock ran forward to greet her caller. “James! This is an unexpected pleasure.”

“Emma,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks in the continental manner. “You’re looking ravishing, as usual. Sorry to interrupt,” he added carelessly.

“Not at all,” she assured him. “These young people are just practicing the waltz,” she explained, “for a little ball I am giving in honor of my daughter’s engagement. It’s at the end of the month. The ball, not the engagement. I hope you will attend, now you are in Bath.”

He leered at her. “Tempting,” he said. “Very tempting. But, I’m afraid, I have pressing concerns in Ireland. I shan’t be staying in Bath more than a day or two.”

Miss Vaughn snorted audibly, drawing His Grace’s attention. “Perhaps you will introduce me to your company, my dear Emma?” he suggested. “Which of these charming young ladies is your daughter?”

Rose came forward shyly and curtseyed.

“Lovely,” the duke said greedily. “Charming.”

“I didn’t realize you knew the Duke of Kellynch, Mama!” Rose said, staring at the infamous duke in fascination. She had heard that he was a rake and a libertine, but, she supposed, that must have been in his younger days. He was far too fat and old now to chase women. But he had Dante’s cool green eyes, so she could not help liking him.

Kellynch chuckled. “I knew your mother when she was your age, my pretty. And she was just as luscious then as you are now. Tell me: who is the lucky man you have chosen for your husband?”

“I have the honor of being engaged to Lady Rose,” said Westlands.

Kellynch ignored him. “Come, my lovely,” he said to Rose. “Introduce me to your friends. But first, give your Uncle Jimmy a kiss. A little jealousy will do your young man good.”

Giggling, Rose obliged him with a peck on the cheek. Rather unconventionally, she brought the duke to her guests, rather than the reverse, which would have been more proper. “Miss Vaughn, you know, of course,” she said when they reached Cosima.

“Of course,” he said, kissing his niece’s hand extravagantly. “The beautiful and talented Cosy Vaughn. You have made quite a fool of poor Lord Redfylde, from what I hear, Cosy. It is all over London. I hope you will not live to regret your choice.”

“Thank you for your concern, Uncle James,” she answered tartly. “I believe you know Sir Benedict Wayborn.”

Kellynch looked amused. “Sir Benedict Wayborn?” he echoed, smiling. “I think not.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Benedict, frowning. “We did meet. Your Grace has forgotten.”

“Oh, we’ve met, I grant you,” Kellynch replied. “But you’re not Sir Benedict Wayborn. You have been deceiving your company most shamefully.”

He rocked on his heels, enjoying the sensation he had touched off in the room.

“An imposter!” cried Lady Matlock. “How can this be?”

“Ben?” said Cosima.

Rose’s eyes were starting from her head.

“What nonsense,” said Benedict. “Of
course
I am Sir Benedict Wayborn.”

“No, you’re not,” Kellynch insisted. “You’re the Marquess of Oranmore.”

“Oh, God!” said Cosima.

“I am no such thing,” Benedict said firmly. “My maternal grandfather is still very much alive, I can assure you.”

“Kenneth Redmund has been dead four months,” Kellynch declared. “May God rest his black and tarnished soul.”

“It’s true,” Cosima said suddenly. “It was in the
Times
of Ireland, about the time we were leaving for England. Your grandfather’s dead, Ben. I’m sorry.”

Benedict was taken aback. “It was not in the English papers,” he said. “My grandmother sent me no word.”

“Well, she wouldn’t, would she?” Kellynch snorted. “Your grandmother never forgave your mother for marrying against her wishes. She’ll cut you out of the succession, if she can.”

Benedict scoffed. “This is all nonsense. Even if my grandfather
is
dead, I am not Lord Oranmore. There are at least four, possibly five, people who stand between the title and me.”

Kellynch looked disappointed. “Too bad. I thought I was onto something there.”

The small gathering in Lady Matlock’s drawing-room sighed in disappointment.

Cosima exclaimed in disgust. “Very funny, Uncle James!”

Kellynch laughed. “Had you going, didn’t I?”

“Bastard,” she muttered.

“And this is Lord Ludham,” Rose said quickly, leading the duke away. “And this is Lady Serena Calverstock. By Order of Precedence, I ought to have introduced
them
to you first,” she said ruefully. “Then Lady Dalrymple, then…But in all the excitement, I’m afraid I forgot all about the Order of Precedence.”

“I have that effect on women,” Kellynch said modestly. He looked at Serena, smiling.

“It’s quite all right,” Ludham assured Rose. “We are all friends here. We do not stand on ceremony. Serena is not offended, are you, old thing?”

Serena could scarcely breathe, let alone speak. She stared at Kellynch in silent horror. He might have been a handsome rake in his youth, but he was a loathsome, bloated beast now. Redfylde had lost her bills to
this
man? For a moment, she feared she was going to faint.

Ludham was concerned. “Serena? Are you quite all right?”

Serena forced herself to smile. “Yes, of course, Felix. Perfectly all right. What brings you to Bath, Your Grace, if you have pressing concerns in Ireland?” she inquired politely.

“I was feeling a little gouty,” Kellynch replied. “I decided to stop in Bath to sample the local cure. I’m a little acquainted with your brother-in-law, my dear,” he went on, his eyes resting on her powdered bosom. “Redfylde and I play cards whenever we are both in London with nothing else to do. From time to time, I sell him some horses.”