A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2) (21 page)

A touch on her shoulder brought her into the moment. “Why
don’t you just stay here tonight?”

Jeanne shook her head furiously. “No, no, I have to go.”

She tore from Mrs. Mason’s touch, arose from her seat, and
hurried to the door.

“Wait, wait. The gentleman may be waiting—”

Jeanne jerked the door open and exited the shop.

She ran faster than she ever had in her life. But she didn’t
have far to go once she’d turned the corner. The gentleman was leaning against
a wall. He looked as pensive as ever.

As she approached his expression eased and he reached a hand
out. “My darling, let’s go home.”

The wind gusted, sending ice cold straight to her bones, and
she pulled her pelisse closer to her chin. A passing coach rattled by, its
wheels sending a sluice of cloudy grayish water up in an arc which came
dangerously close to drenching them.

She forced a smile. “Yes, let’s go home.”

She’d get him into a carriage and on his way back to where he
belonged. Surely that was enough. A gentleman like him must have servants who
would watch over him. Her responsibility would be discharged.

“Where the devil is the carriage?” Deep offense resounded in
his voice, as though he’d never had to wait for a carriage before.

“Didn’t you tell your driver to wait?”

“Of course I did.” His voice rang with indignation.

“Come,” she said firmly. “Let’s go back to the mews and see
about your carriage.”

The groom at the mews nearest the coffee shop said that the
gentleman hadn’t left any carriage there.

“Where did you come from before you arrived at the coffee
shop?” she asked once they had walked out of earshot of the groom.

The gentleman just stared at her with that highbrow look and
compressed his lips. So, he didn’t know where he’d been or where he’d left his
damned carriage. She sighed. “We’ll walk a bit and a hackney will come along.”

He looked down from his lofty heights, almost sneering down
his aristocratic nose. “We’re certainly not going to take a public carriage.”

“Well, the carriage is—” She drew her brows together. “—being
repaired.”

“Being repaired?” he asked, as though such a thing were a
complete impossibility.

“Yes.”

Her heart fluttered a series of frenzied beats. Shaky,
panicked energy quivered down her legs. She drew in a deep, hitching breath.
Calm, she must remain calm. If she stayed calm, he was less likely to have any
sort of fit or rage, right? Perhaps she might play the loving mistress?
“Darling, don’t you remember?”

He stared at her then blinked several times.

“Don’t you?” She made her voice very soft.

He released her hand. “Blast it, I don’t remember.” His
expression went blank yet his eyes widened. “I don’t remember anything.” He
frowned. “Except that you were angry with me.”

“Angry about what?”

“Everything.”

There was that devastated, desolate look again. The burn
returned to her throat and she had to turn away. “It’s terribly cold. We’re
being soaked. Let us find a public conveyance and sort all of this out later,
shall we?”

He jutted his chin and his features took on an annoyed
expression. Apparently, he was not used to listening to others or taking their
advice. He blinked once or twice and then he took her hand again and strode
determinedly ahead, pulling her with him.

When they found a carriage for hire, the gentleman stared
blankly at the driver.

“Sir, where shall I take you?”

“Darling, tell the man.” Again, she tried to make her voice
soft. Loving.

He turned to her. His eyes, now glassy again, reflected sheer
fear. Her throat constricted. Again, she wondered if he were really ill with a
fever. He didn’t remember where he lived. Or he couldn’t remember how to give
directions to where he lived. Heavens, it was worse than she’d thought. Oh
Lord. She did not want to deal with any panicked hysterics or self-defensive
rages like with Papa. She swallowed hard and smiled at him in a hopefully
reassuring manner.

He jerked his gaze away.

“Give him directions, Thérèse.” The resentment in his voice
made her heart contract. She was intimately familiar with a man not wanting to
appear weak. Not wanting to need help.

Wetness pricked the corners of her eyes. Not from the rain
but from frustration.

All right, yes, mostly she cried from sympathy.

She did not want this. This couldn’t be happening. She
quickly gave the driver directions.

She’d have to take him to her garret for now. The other women
frequently entertained men in their rooms. Mrs. Pillmore required her
percentage, of course. But it wouldn’t seem amiss to anyone. Oh, just imagine
how Mr. High-And-Mighty was going to respond to being taken to her garret. But
what else was she to do with him? Good heavens, he wasn’t a stray dog.

The driver rushed to aid her into the carriage but the
gentleman pushed him away, then poked his head inside.

He began peeling off his greatcoat.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“It is appalling in there. You shall have to sit on my coat.”

She stuck her head inside and caught the odor of mildew and a
touch of stale urine. Well, clearly not the best but she’d come across worse.
On a rainy day, this close to east London, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Please put your coat back on.

“You cannot sit on those seats.”

“You are becoming soaked through. Please, put your coat on.”

His frown deepened. “Thérèse, why are you suddenly so
disagreeable?”

“The longer we stand here, the more thoroughly soaked we get
from the sleet.”

Was that a hint of a smile on his lips? “Your new bluntness
is a refreshing.”

He reached out, as though he were about to help her into the
carriage. Then he swayed and listed backwards. His eyes rolled until only the
whites showed. He pitched forward.

A startled cry pierced the silence. Hers. She leapt forward,
hands poised to catch him. He fell upon her and his weight overwhelmed her to
the point her knees buckled.

Then his weight eased. The driver was lifting him. “Let’s put
him inside, milady.”

Milady.

She could have laughed at any other time. But the reality of
her situation came crashing upon her. She was now responsible for an
unconscious, mentally unstable gentleman. Together, they got him inside. She
settled beside him and took a deep breath.

The driver closed the door with a slam. The finality of the
sound resonated deep in her chest.

What a fine situation she’d willingly trapped herself in.

Her nostrils began to burn. The connivance didn’t smell any nicer
with the door shut. She wrinkled her nose. Thank God she didn’t live too far
away.

It began to move. To put it more bluntly, it began to rock
hard enough to rattle her teeth. His unconscious form shifted and fell against
her shoulder.

“Thérèse—” His deep voice sounded sleepy. “The channel is so
choppy this time of year. You mustn’t be afraid. Think about Paris. We shall
have a grand time in Paris.”

He locked an arm around her waist and drew her near.
Sheltering her from the jarring motion with his body.

His very solid body.

The hackney rattled along and another strong jolt hit. She
found her face pressed ruthlessly against his chest. The scent of his shaving
soap was certainly better than the odors in the carriage.

He pressed the curve of her waist then slid down to the swell
of her hip. “You have gained some weight.”

Heat suffused her face. Of course, his Thérèse must be a slip
of a thing. No one could ever accuse Jeanne of being slender.

“You never ran from me before.”

“No?”

“No.” He found her hand. “Can you forgive me? Will you come
home and stay?” He didn’t plead. But there was a sincere, earnest, urgency
underneath his calm tone that made her believe his sincerity. His remorse. It
held her spellbound, unable to resist as he lifted her hand to his cheek. The
stubble there was a faint rasp against her fingers.

His skin burnt her like live coals. She gasped then jerked
her hand out of his hold.

She tore her glove off and put a hand to his forehead. Moist,
blistering heat.

Thurmp, Thurmp. Thurmp.

Her heart pounded her ears with sudden, jarring violence. Her
mouth went dry. God above. She’d been so focused on her dread of insanity, it
had clouded her perception. Clearly, the man was dreadfully ill and delirious
with fever.

Totally her responsibility.

She swallowed hard and in the semidarkness they rode in
silence for long moments. Silence but for the subtle wheezing issuing from his
open mouth as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Chapter One

Adrian
Sutherland, Earl of Danvers, surveyed the crowded ballroom. Soft lamplight
shone on walls draped in yards and yards of rich crimson velvet. The twang of
someone warming up a violin cut above the steady rumble of deep voices. A faint
miasma of smoke from those gentlemen who favored the habit lent an acrid edge
to the scent of a little too much cologne in the packed ballroom.

But
something else crackled just beneath the surface, the energy of
barely-contained male anticipation that marked a courtesans’ ball.

And
not just any courtesans’ ball. This event showcased the cream of available
impures of the Season. Only the wealthiest and titled gentlemen were allowed
entry.

Adrian
circled the crowd, scanning the swarm of male bodies clad in dark evening
clothes. To his left, a man shifted, and the wall of bodies parted. His gaze
caught a glint of fiery copper highlights in a luxuriant profusion of glossy,
dark auburn curls.

Flawless,
pale ivory skin.

The
flash of white teeth against lush, blood-red curving lips.

His
heart began to thud, and the buzz of conversation faded.

Miss
Miranda Jones.

He
couldn’t stop his gaze from following the curl that trailed her bare shoulder
down to the curve of generous breasts above the bright scrap of sapphire velvet
adorned with sparkling beads.

A
mental picture flashed of her lying on white sheets wearing nothing but the
silver locket that rested within the generous valley. Her chest expanded with
every breath, and he held his own in anticipation of a peek of pink nipple
barely covered by the scandalous bodice.

Had
his father felt this way? For the first time, Adrian understood his father’s
disastrous actions. What man wouldn’t ruin his life for a woman like her?

And
not just any woman. She was the niece of the very woman who had stolen, then
feasted on, his father’s heart.

What
a complex and tragic coil life could be.

Christ,
why had he let Dorothy coerce him into confronting Miss Jones?

After
the death of her protector, the Duke of Carrville, Miranda had disappeared from
society for months. A seeming eternity during which he’d been unable to keep
from scanning ballrooms, opera boxes and carriages in the park, some
traitorous, senseless part of himself hungering for just the sight of her.
That, he realized with disgust, was why he’d agreed to speak with her. He
wanted her.

Exquisite
courtesans like Miranda Jones had expensive tastes and emotionally demanding
natures. Worse, they insisted on long-term contractual commitments from their
protectors.

And
they usually got whatever they demanded.

He
had no time for such nonsense. He preferred less demanding women, with clean
scrubbed faces, modest clothing and grateful, generous natures.

Women
like Dorothy, dowager Lady Chadwick, his late wife’s sister and his lover of
several years. He was quite fond of her, but owed her no particular
faithfulness.

He
tried to visualize Dorothy’s finer points, her sensible, light brown hair and
warm coffee-brown eyes.

Instead,
images of velvety ivory skin and luminous auburn hair intruded.

Yes,
he understood why the gentlemen here tonight vied for this woman’s favors.

His
own father had spent what had remained of the family fortune courting such a
woman. In the end, he’d earned only her rejection.

The
men of his family had a weakness for such emotional punishment.

At
Miss Jones’ side, a man of about forty, with a pleasant face and slightly
balding plate, gazed at her with worshipful eyes… the Duke of Froster.

It’s
her fault that Papa died.

Dorothy’s
strident words echoed in his mind.

Miranda
Jones pushed and pushed until he caved to her demands for more luxury, more
gifts. She hounded him, forced him to place all his money in a losing
investment. The strain of it killed him. I know it did.

Now
she’s set her sights on the Duke of Froster. He’s such a dear, sweet man. You
must stop her.

He
told himself it had been the urgency in her voice, the pleading in her eyes
that rendered him unable to deny her request. Dorothy was more than a lover.
She was his friend. But, in truth, her final plea is what finally goaded him
into action.

If
you won’t do it for me, then do it to make her feel what it means to lose. Make
her atone for Papa. Make her atone for your sons having lost their grandfather
so early and so needlessly.

The
nerve she hit reminded him how much his sons had lost so early in their lives.
The night he sat at his wife’s deathbed he’d vowed to make up for that. They
had lost both of their grandfathers too soon. He couldn’t bring Carrville or
his own father back. However, he could prevent the mild-mannered and naïve Duke
of Froster from throwing his grandchildren’s financial legacy away as Adrian’s
father had.

Despite
these truths, despite his private vow and his promise to Dorothy, something
even more private had driven him here tonight.

He
wanted Miranda Jones to look him in the face.

He
wanted to confront her.

It
was a damned waste of his time. There wouldn’t even be any good prospects for
large wins in the card room. These events, where gentlemen were so focused on
the women, proved poor pickings for a gentleman like him, one bent on
rebuilding his family fortune via gambling.

As
he approached the circle of fawning, worshipful men, not a single one greeted
him but, instead, kept their eyes glued to the lovely, glittering nightbird.

“Froster,”
Adrian said.

The
duke didn’t reply, and Adrian realized the man was so caught up in the slightly
naughty little jest that Miss Jones was telling that he didn’t hear him.

“Froster,”
Adrian said, sharply, unable to conceal his disgust with the older man’s
enraptured state.

Froster
turned, his eyes alight with pleasure, cheeks flushed. “Good evening, Danvers.”
He motioned for Adrian to come closer. “Miss Jones has been telling us the most
delightful stories.”

“Has
she?” Adrian said, forcing a disinterested tone as he directed his attention
towards Miss Jones.

Eyes
of palest green, with a radiance like pearls, met his. Eyes that narrowed
slightly.

Her
haughty, slightly bored expression stung his pride. He was the twenty-seventh
Earl of Danvers, a Sutherland, descended from a bloodline with noble roots as
old as England itself. Who was she? A commoner. Just another woman among scores
of her kind in Mayfair, no different from thousands of her poorer sisters
selling their wares to the highest bidder on the streets of London.

He
fought to keep his expression pleasant.

“Good
evening, Miss Jones,” he said smoothly.

“Good
evening, Lord Danvers.” Her expression warmed to starchy politeness, the barest
hint of a curve to her lush mouth.

“Start
the story over, Miss Jones,” Froster said with boyish earnestness.

Adrian
shook his head. “No, that’s not necessary.” He held out a hand to Miss Jones.
“I hear the quartet setting up. Perhaps you’d care to dance?”

Her
lush, red mouth dropped open, and her eyes rounded. A lovely, exaggerated
performance. “Dance, my lord? With you?”

She
glanced around at her circle of admirers, her gorgeous mouth twitching. With a
graceful flourish, she swept her fan up to cover her nose and mouth. Then she
laughed, her eyes dancing above the gold lace that edged the fan.

All
exaggerated actions.

All
artifice.

Just
the type of behavior that he despised—and expected—from women of her type.

The
noblemen who flocked around her echoed her laughter like pathetic puppies. He
kept his attention focused on Miss Jones.

“You
find something amusing in my invitation?” he said.

“My
lord, it is well known that you do not dance with courtesans.”

“What
man wouldn’t make an exception in your case, Miss Jones?”

“My
goodness.” Miss Jones fanned her face with slow, languid motions, making her
ringlets flutter.

The
gentlemen around her continued to chuckle.

“Will
you dance with me or not?” he asked tersely.

Though
she continued to smile, her gaze hardened. “You do me quite an honor, Lord
Danvers. I can hardly say no, can I?”

He
offered his hand again.

She
took it.

“Now
see here, Danvers,” Lord Peters said. “You have no right to just stroll in here
and take our lovely Miss Jones away.”

“Yes,
quite so,” Lord Thomason said. “You don’t even attend events like this.”

Adrian
ignored them and led Miss Jones to where the other couples were assembling for
the dance.

As
Miss Jones followed at his side, she smiled. She sparkled.

Every
male gaze followed her.

She
exuded such sensual appeal, such dramatic exuberance, it was impossible not to
notice her. Not to stare.

She
certainly seemed to have overcome any grief she might have felt over the loss
of her long-time protector.

However,
she wasn’t Carrville’s widow. There were no rules to mandate a mistress’
mourning period. And she would need to find a new protector.

It
was only fair to give her a chance.

This
impromptu interview, this dance, was her chance to prove to him that she wasn’t
the scheming, predatory creature that Dorothy believed her to be.

However,
Miss Jones didn’t know she was being interviewed. Did she even stop to suspect
that she might be tested? Confronted?

He
took her hand and they circled each other.

Her
expression continued to radiate excitement, joy, warmth. Yet when her gaze met
his, he glimpsed the iceberg.

Cold
enough to freeze a man’s stones off.

Unable
to stop casting a covert glance at her ivory-hued cleavage, he led her through
the moves of the dance, too aware of his hardening erection.

“I
am not interested in a one-night assignation.” Her cool, cultured tone fell
over him like icy water.

“What?”
he blurted.

“My
lord, it is well known that you have no interest in keeping a high flier for a
mistress. Well, I am not interested in being a one-time light o’ love of any
man. No matter his rank or…” As the dance pulled them apart, she slid her gaze
inch by inch down his body as though recording every detail of his face,
cravat, coat and waistcoat.

So
intense was her inspection, he almost felt her touch. His erection grew hard as
iron, his cock leaking.

She
lifted her gaze to his face. “His
qualifications
.”

He
returned a lazy, lengthy assessment of his own. Despite his painful erection,
he maintained a cool expression at the sight of every luscious inch of her. He
managed a grin. A slight one. “What makes you think I am interested in a
one-night assignation?”

“Why
else approach me?”

“Perhaps
I am simply being friendly to the former mistress of my late wife’s father. Not
just my father-in-law but a dear friend and mentor.”

“You
were friends once, yes, but in later years not that close.” Her arch glance cut
into him. “He was confused at the loss of your closeness.”

Guilt
pricked, but he shrugged. “Friends often grow apart.” 

“It
is not the kindest act to turn away from a true friend.”

Anger
flared. What the devil would this chit know about what had motivated his
cooling towards Carrville?

“How
unfortunate that Carrville and I had that parting of the ways. As a result, you
and I have not yet had the chance to come to know each other.”

Her
eyes flashed with ire. “I’ve told you that I have no interest in being party to
any gaff
affaire
.”

That
flash in her eyes. Another brilliant, yet all too brief, flash of utter beauty.
Like lightning, it crackled through him, sending his heart racing.

Christ,
what was it about her that made him think in such an appalling excuse for
poetic phrasings? Was it just her youth? Or perhaps it was the memory of her
once wide-eyed innocence when her aunt had first presented her at a courtesan’s
ball four years ago. Did he hold on to the vague hope that that innocent girl
still existed beneath her cool expression, elegant coiffure and glittering
wardrobe?

Heaven
help him if part of him struggled under
that
illusion.

For
he knew all about her kind. She was the daughter of a courtesan. Such
characteristics had been born and bred into her. Time had won out.

Only
a fool would cling to a memory.

And
external beauty was the most treacherous of all illusions.

They
danced in silence after that.

She
smelled delicious. The most delicate, refined blend of rose and musk
imaginable. Then came a sweet scent of fruits too exotic to name, followed by a
hint of spicy things too ephemeral and nuanced for him to discern.

The
music ended, and he led her away from the dance floor. As he did, the meaning
of her words struck him. Once on the edge of the chamber, he stopped and turned
to her.

“Gaff?”
he asked.

“You
treat your women cheaply,” she said.

He
chuckled softly. “I’ve yet to receive any complaints.”

A
flush brightened her cheeks. Her breathing increased, as did the rise and fall
of her bosom. The dangerous swell of her cleavage transfixed him, yet again.

He
reached for the locket nestled between her breasts. Soft flesh seared his
fingers, briefly.

God.

Renewed
lust flared in his loins. His cock grew harder than iron.

He
lifted the locket and examined it. The cheapest silver. Shoddy artistry. Why
would she even allow such an item on her person, much less wear it when she was
amid other people?