His Lady Mistress

‘I came to make quite sure you understood what I offered you this morning. I want more than a casual tumble. I would take you as my mistress, Selina. If you still refuse, then so be it, but I thought you might find my protection more acceptable than Faringdon’s persecution.’

A gentle way with women… ‘Why?’

She thought he blinked. ‘Why? Because I’m asking you, Selina. Not forcing you. If you become my mistress, it must be willingly.’

‘No. I meant, why do you want me as your mistress?’ And why am I even asking?

He definitely blinked. ‘Isn’t that obvious, Selina?’

‘No.’ She couldn’t imagine why he would want her. According to her aunt and cousins she had nothing to recommend her. Oh, she knew why Godfrey wanted her. Because she was defenceless and he was a swaggering bully, not far removed from the loutish schoolboy who had once drowned a kitten in front of his terrified little cousin, merely because he knew she was fond of it.

But Max—Lord Blakehurst—was not of that ilk. She had not the least idea why a man with a reputation for taking beautiful women as his mistresses would want her.

‘Because I desire you of course.’ The sudden huskiness in his voice shocked her. ‘Because I want to take you in my arms and kiss you and every one of those damn freckles. Because I want to see your eyes go black with desire when I make love to you. Because I want to hear you beg me to take you. And I want to hear you cry out in pleasure when I do.’

As if he couldn’t help himself, he reached for her and she jerked back against the wall. Instantly his arms fell to his sides. She heard the rasp of his breath, saw the sudden flattening of his mouth.

‘I’m s-sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to make you angry. You startled me.’

Silence hung darkly between them.

‘I’m not angry,’ he said at last. ‘Well, yes, I am. But with myself for frightening you. The truth is, Selina, that I want you. I wanted you the minute I laid eyes on you. Or, to be accurate, the minute I felt you in my arms.

‘Think about it,’ he went on. ‘Even if you are not dismissed, there is still Faringdon. He may leave you alone while I am here, but what do you think will happen when I leave? At least if you come with me you will be treated well, you will have clothes, jewels and money. A house to live in. After we part you will have a generous sum of money settled on you.’

Any single element of what he offered would be a great deal more than she had now. It would have been tempting…if she had wanted any of it. It was what he didn’t mention that tempted her—that briefly there would be someone who cared a little. Someone who would treat her tenderly. Someone she could care for. After we part… Inevitably there would be a parting. Even now her heart ached in the expectation of pain. Would it be worse to have the joy and lose it, or never have it at all?

He said he wanted to make love to her. Godfrey had told her what he wanted of her in explicitly crude detail that left her shuddering. The word love hadn’t entered into it. Max’s hot words left a burning ache in her breasts, a shimmering glow throughout her entire body that she knew would burst into flame if he so much as touched her. That was why she had jerked back. Max held a far more dangerous power over her than Godfrey Faringdon because she wanted him, despite her mind screaming that she was insane even considering such a step, that she would be ruined, lost forever, should she take it.

It was far too dangerous to accept. If he ever found out who she was… She did not think she could bear the disgust and horror in his eyes. For the drudge, Selina, to accept his offer was unexceptionable. For Miss Verity Scott to become his mistress… She could protect herself against the Faringdons’ scorn. She didn’t love them, never had, but Max…he would hate her if he ever discovered the truth.

‘Selina?’ The very softness of his voice caressed her. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. But believe me, what we could have together would be very different from what Faringdon has forced on you.’

She believed him, and did not bother to correct his assumption that Godfrey had already stripped her of her innocence. In a way he had. As had all the Faringdons. She had very few illusions left as to how the world viewed a girl in her situation. A drudge. A source of unpaid labour and a convenient victim for bullying. He had offered her escape. Not love.

She had to refuse him. But her whole being cried out in protest at being denied the tenderness he offered. Surely she could have just one last, tiny taste of heaven, one small joy to cherish in the years ahead?

‘I must refuse you, my lord,’ she said quietly, praying that the lump in her throat wouldn’t choke her.

‘Must you?’

She could only nod.

‘Very well.’

He rose from the chest and picked up his lantern and she realised that he was leaving. That if she didn’t speak now he would be gone. With all her dreams.

‘But, if you do not mind, my lord…I…I should like to kiss you again.’

He turned very slowly. ‘Why? If you do not wish—’

She interrupted. ‘I cannot be your mistress, my lord, but it is not because you frightened me, or that I do not trust you.’

His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘If you will offer to kiss me after what I said to you earlier, then your trust is self-evident. Are you sure, Selina? Be warned: I have every intention of using this kiss to change your mind. It will start with a kiss, but if you want it to stop there, you are the one who will have to say so.’

She swallowed. He had warned her, that was fair. The risk was hers, to take or reject. She took it. Trembling, she held out her hand.

His smile deepened and he came to her.

This time he sat beside her, his weight tipping her towards him, and she realised just how much bigger he was. In the enveloping shadows his large frame loomed over her, the faint scent of cologne teased her senses, wafting over her. She felt his hands on her shoulders, urging her towards him, drawing her with shattering care into his embrace.

Her breathing hitched, drawing the scent, the essence of him, deeper. His large, warm hand slid under her chin, tipping her face up. Delicately he touched her, tracing her cheekbones, her nose, the line of her brows. And where his fingers caressed, his lips followed, tasting, teasing until her breath shivered and broke in pleasure.

Those tantalising fingers found her jaw, stroked and circled while his thumb brushed her mouth, following the curve of her lips. She could feel his breath, hot and urgent at her ear and turned her head, shyly seeking him. She felt him smile as his mouth closed over hers, felt his arms tighten as she melted against him. Instinctively her arms slid around him as she wriggled closer, pressing herself into the heat of his body.

The blanket she had clutched around her fell away, forgotten in the wonder of his mouth moving on hers and his gentle hands holding her close. Hands that explored and shaped her, telling her that she was lovely, that he desired her. Hands that banished the old world and replaced it with a spinning glory of passion.

Clumsily, she opened her mouth a little and returned his kiss, only to feel a possessive hand slip between them and cover one breast as his tongue traced her lips. A shocked gasp ripped from her at the glittering sensation taking her by storm. He took instant advantage. His mouth twisted against hers, opening her more fully and his tongue penetrated deeply in intimate possession. Her mind whirled. Her body melted to warm, flowing honey, drained of all strength.

Slowly, repeatedly, he claimed her mouth until some last vestige of common sense warned her, If you don’t stop him now, you won’t be able to. You won’t even want to.

It took every ounce of willpower, but somehow she pushed on his shoulders, pulling her mouth free. She could feel the hard tension in his body, the tightening of his arms as, for an instant, he possessed her mouth fiercely, demanding her surrender. Then he released her and stood, his breathing audible.

‘My offer stands. You have only to come to me.’

He was gone, his footsteps fading down the stairs, leaving Verity staring into the dark. Her taste of heaven had been a terrible mistake. His kiss had not given comfort. Instead her whole body sang and throbbed with a burning need that she scarcely understood. Instead of comfort, she had unleashed an appalling temptation.

Chapter Four

Three days later Max left the breakfast parlour in a thoroughly disgusted frame of mind. Lord, what on earth possessed him to remain at this house party? If he had to endure much more inane conversation and blatant toadying, he was likely to brain someone. Probably that simpering chit, Celia. Thank God the wench was too self-indulgent to appear for breakfast. No doubt she sipped weak tea off a tray in her bedchamber and made some housemaid’s life a living hell.

Like Selina. He gritted his teeth. He’d not seen her since the night he went to her bedchamber. Plainly she meant her refusal and had taken pains to avoid him. He should forget her, return to town. But the thought of that cur, Godfrey, forcing himself on the girl… Max found his shoulders growing tense and his fists clenching. So he’d put off his departure time and again, telling himself that while he remained she was safe and hoping to see her so that he could ask again, persuade her with a few more gentle kisses. His body ached at the memory of her mouth opening shyly under his, the small, shocked gasp as he tasted her deeply and caressed the tender breasts pressing against him…

He was just as shabby as Mr Faringdon, his conscience informed him. Why shabby? he argued. If Faringdon’s been forcing himself on her and she has nowhere to go, then she might have welcomed the opportunity.

You lousy bastard! his better self protested. What choice has she got?

Oh, rubbish! After all, she’d be far better off, and it’s not as though I’d leave her destitute afterwards. In fact, I could set her up with an annuity. A little something in the three percents to make her independent. She can always say no. It’s not as though I’d force her.

She did say no. His conscience pointed that out with unwonted zeal. It also reminded him of another girl he’d failed to save. Unlike Verity Scott, Selina had had her chance and refused it. There was nothing to hold him here. He’d leave tomorrow. In fact, he’d find Faringdon right now and tell him before going riding.

The day passed wearily for Verity with no prospect of rest until evening. She could only thank God for the house party. At least her tasks were still limited to those away from the family and their guests. And maybe tonight she could hide on her stairs again and watch for a glimpse of Max going past on his way to bed.

That was the only time she permitted herself to see him, the only bright spot in a very bleak outlook. And it gave her more pain than pleasure. The temptation to go to him, accept his offer, tore at her.

She shivered. Better that she told him who she was. He’d never take her then. The temptation would be gone. She didn’t dare. He’d try to force the Faringdons to treat her better. But what could he really do? She was under twenty-one, a pauper, wholly at the command of her legal guardians. He was Blakehurst, society’s darling. The night they had met he had said it was better they did not meet again, that he could offer her nothing.

She had seen him. That was better than nothing. And if he found out the truth she’d be worse off than ever. Aunt Faringdon would see to that.

During the afternoon she was sent to Celia’s bedchamber to do the mending. At least it meant she could sit down. She curled into a tight little ball, shivering despite the warmth of the day, as she stitched at the gown Celia had torn the night before. She wouldn’t mind the mending and other tasks if her aunt and cousins would just treat her like a member of the family, if they had not stolen every vestige of dignity from her, down to her very name.

Did Verity Scott even exist any more? Or had she died years ago and been replaced by the silent, unassuming Selina? She was nineteen, for heaven’s sake, nearly twenty. She’d had more courage at fifteen. Desperately Verity tried to remember the child who had crept out in a blinding downpour to try and give her father’s burial some honour.

Would she dare to do it now? Shame and self-loathing lashed at her. How could she have become so subservient? Grimly, she tied off her thread and snipped it. She had stood up for Sukey. What if she stood up for herself? Now? What if she refused to be Selina any more?

She rose and took the mended gown to the armoire. She had become Selina in order to survive. So she would have to make a decision. Survival, or self-respect.

The next item in her mending pile was a shirt of Godfrey’s. A button had come off. Even after laundering, the shirt still smelt of him, reminding her of what was likely to happen after the conclusion of the house party. Sick fear clenched her stomach. She had thought she had nothing left to lose. Apparently she did: survival, or self-respect. She doubted that she could have both.

Celia came up to change for dinner in a foul temper and Verity learned that Lord Blakehurst had disappeared straight after breakfast and gone riding all day. By himself. Again.

Stepping out of her afternoon gown, Celia sat down at her dressing table in her chemise and petticoat and said, ‘He was at breakfast, they told me, and then he simply vanished. Oh, and Mama is furious.’ She turned to Verity with a sneer and said, ‘Something to do with you, I believe. You’re for it when she comes up. She said you had tried to intrigue Lord Blakehurst.’

Fingers suddenly numb, Verity dropped the slipper she had just picked up. Someone had seen them.

‘Imagine,’ continued Celia, ‘you! Attempting to intrigue a connoisseur like Blakehurst! They say all his mistresses are stunningly beautiful and that he flaunts them all over London. But it is all of a piece, I dare say. Obviously cowardice runs in your family and now you have attempted to become a whore.’

Beyond the churning fear something stirred deep inside Verity. Something that had stayed chained for years.

Celia pouted at her reflection and caught up a handful of hair, twisting it this way and that. ‘I think I shall have a new coiffure tonight. I’m so bored with my old one. See to it, girl.’

Verity’s self-control shattered into a thousand gleaming, deadly fragments and her temper stepped free. ‘Certainly, cousin,’ she said, sweeping up the sewing scissors on her way to the dressing table. ‘How about this?’ She snatched up a section of hair and slashed with the scissors. ‘And this!’ Another bunch of curls joined their fellows on the floor.

Celia’s shrieks and screams, as she clutched the shorn patches by her left temple and ear, had their inevitable aftermath.

Verity turned calmly enough as Lady Faringdon rushed in. Her ladyship took one look at the ruin of Celia’s hair and rounded on her niece. ‘Get out,’ she shouted. ‘Return to your room. I’ll see to you in the morning, after I bid farewell to Lord Blakehurst.’

Verity drew in a horrified breath which her aunt observed.

‘Yes, that’s right. He’s leaving. Did you think that you had caught his attention? No doubt your attempt to insinuate yourself into his notice has disgusted him. Now go!’

Refusing to be cowed, Verity said cheerfully, ‘Goodnight, Aunt, Cousin. I dare say one of the maids can brush your hair before bed, now that I’ve lightened the task for her. Enjoy your evening.’

Tearing herself from her mama’s enveloping bosom, Celia leapt at her with a shriek of rage, but Verity stood her ground with a little smile and lifted the scissors again. ‘Do you want me to even it up a trifle, Celia?’

Celia shrank back. ‘Mama! She threatened me!’

‘Yes, well,’ said Verity, ‘after all, what else could you expect of a coward and a whore?’ She dropped the scissors and stalked out, slamming the door.

She barely remembered reaching her chamber. Vaguely she noticed several guests appear from their rooms, excitedly wondering what all the commotion was about. One or two even asked if she knew, but she was too shocked at the enormity of what she had done to respond.

Eventually she lay on her narrow bed, staring into the darkness, trying to hold back despair. There was no time to think of a plan for escape, or try to find a position. She had to leave. At once. She’d burned an entire armada of boats to the waterline.

But, oh! It had been worth it to see the look on Celia’s face! Despite her fear, she giggled. And Aunt’s face! As though the silent, cowed poor relation had suddenly gone mad.

Enough. Now she had to think what to do. Shivering, she faced the truth. If she remained, she was ruined. After this, her aunt would look the other way while Godfrey debauched her. If she left and sought shelter in the workhouse, it would only be a matter of time before some other man took her.

A whore.

Whichever way she turned, she was trapped. Unless…unless she accepted Lord Blakehurst’s offer. She couldn’t! She didn’t dare…did she? Carefully she thought it over. If she took some precautions, misled him a little about her intentions, he would never realise who she was. If he took her, she would be free. Even if they realised who she had gone to, they wouldn’t dare take her back, because to do so they would have to admit who she was. The risk of scandal would be too great.

She would have to remain Selina Dering. With a queer sense of foreboding, she realised that, to all intents and purposes, Verity would cease to exist. There would be only Selina. Max must never know the truth. Any of it.

Straight after dinner Max excused himself, muttered something about an early start and went up to his room. Not even the prospect of finding out what had caused the explosion of feminine hysteria shortly before dinner tempted him to remain for longer than was absolutely required by the dictates of courtesy.

That Celia Faringdon had been at the centre of the outburst was evidenced by the fact that she had not appeared at dinner. Lady Faringdon’s explanation of a sensitive and easily cast-down temperament, Max translated as spoiled brat who didn’t get her own way over something trivial.

Once in his room, he rang the bell and when Harding arrived, said, ‘We’ll leave first thing. Have you packed?’

Harding nodded. ‘Aye, sir. Everything’s ready. Will there be aught else tonight?’

Max shook his head, and then reconsidered. ‘On second thoughts, send up a bottle of brandy, and then get an early night.’

Harding hesitated. ‘Brandy, sir? You’ll have a devilish head in the morning.’

Earl Blakehurst raised his brows. ‘I beg your pardon, Sergeant?’

Holding his ground gallantly, Harding repeated, ‘You’ll have a devilish head, sir. The brandy’s damned awful!’

Max managed a disclipinary sort of stare. ‘In which case you have my full permission to say “I told you so” and gloat. Just do it.’

‘Yes, sir. One hangover coming up, sir.’

Max’s mouth twitched. ‘Impudent dog! God knows why I bear with you!’

Harding grinned. ‘Probably, sir. Omniscient, isn’t He?’

Max burst out laughing and sat down on the bed to pull his shoes off.

‘Sir?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Dessay it’s not my place to ask, but did you hear anything about the Colonel’s lass?’

The laughter drained away. ‘I’m sorry, Harding, I should have told you,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s dead. Faringdon hinted that she took her own life. I was too late. Again.’

Harding blanched. ‘Oh, Gawd! I’m that sorry, sir.’

‘So am I. Goodnight.’

When the brandy came Max uncorked it and faced his failure. Five years. Why the hell had he left it so long to assure himself of Verity Scott’s well being? Not knowing the Faringdons beyond a nodding acquaintance, he’d assumed that they would take care of Verity, that she would be safe with them. Damn it, he’d been relieved when he discovered that her relations were wealthy.

Not until Lady Faringdon came to the fore this past spring in launching the fair Celia had he begun to wonder.

His fingers tightened on the wine glass and he took a large swallow, feeling the brandy burn its way down. He had thought that the child was better off not being reminded of that ghastly burial, that he should leave her to recover in the care of her family. He hadn’t even worried when they didn’t bring her up to London for a Season. After all, launching a girl was an expensive business and Verity, as far as he knew, was destitute. All her father’s property had been sequestered. They might have provided for her much less expensively.

But closer acquaintance with Lady Faringdon had all his instincts on point. This was not a woman to whom he would have consigned a dog with a thorn in its paw, let alone the shattered, grieving orphan of a suicide.

He piled up his pillows and, sitting back, linked his arms behind his head to stare up into the shadowed canopy of his bed. Too late. Just as he had been too late for the man who had saved his life at the ultimate cost of his own.

William Scott had deflected the sabre that should have killed or maimed him. It had been William Scott whose wound had festered and turned gangrenous. It had been William Scott whose arm had been amputated in a stinking field hospital after Waterloo. And William Scott who had eventually sunk into despair and destroyed himself.

Bitterly he took another swallow of brandy. He should have visited soon after Verity came to live here. Or written to her. Then she might have known that she had one friend who cared for her and remembered her father with gratitude rather than shame. It might have made the Faringdons look after her.

He shuddered, forcing the ghosts away. He could do nothing for them now. They were both at peace. Tomorrow night he would be back in London. Hopefully his twin, Richard, would have returned to town and he could wash the bitterness of failure from his heart. Better to turn his mind to the living and keep on drinking to banish tonight’s ghosts. A hangover in the morning was a fair price for that.

About halfway down the bottle an image of Selina flashed into his mind. She had refused him. Twice. There was nothing more he could do for her. He clenched his fists. No doubt if she had to contend with young Faringdon’s attentions whenever the distempered cub chose to grace his ancestral seat, then she had good reason to fear what a man might do to her.

Lord, but she’d be sweet though. Those great dark eyes and dusky curls. Her slender figure would be all delicate curves when she filled out a trifle. She had spirit, too. He grinned, remembering the yell of pain from Faringdon, just before Selina had tumbled out of the stairwell—and the marks on his face. Faringdon had endured any number of witty remarks about wildcats the next morning. And she had defended that maidservant.

All of which would go hard against her when he left. Max lifted the glass to his lips and swore again when he found it empty. He reached for the bottle and carefully poured another tot. And another.

Selina had refused his offer. There was not much he could do for the poor girl, unless… Unless he could persuade his Aunt Almeria, Lady Arnsworth, that she needed a companion. That Miss Selina Dering would fit the bill admirably. He could go up to her room now and suggest it to Selina. Give her his direction in town and some money for the fare. Almeria would have her if he offered to frank, say, her box at the opera.

Contemplating the level in the brandy bottle, he hesitated. Perhaps he ought to leave it until morning. Business matters were best undertaken with a clear head. And he had a horrible feeling that he had reached the limits of his control on his previous visit to her bedchamber. It had been damn near impossible to release her then. Now…his whole body hardened, just thinking about the sweetness of her response, the way her body had melted in his arms. If he went now, he’d probably find himself attempting to seduce her into accepting his original offer.