His Lady Mistress (21 page)

‘Will there be anything else, my lord?’ Henny’s disapproving voice jolted him back to reality.

‘Er, no. Thank you, Henny. I’ll find her ladyship myself. Goodnight.’

Mrs Henty didn’t deign to an intelligible reply. She snorted and stalked out, her back radiating indignation. The door closed behind her with a decided snap.

‘I’d say,
Master Max
,’ said Richard, ‘that you have been called to account for yourself and found severely lacking in several departments.’

Max grunted.

‘Something I should show you, too.’

Max looked up. Richard had picked up a small, framed picture.

‘I found this on my desk in the library. God knows how she got them to sit still for long enough.’ He walked over and handed it to Max.

With an appalling sense of certainty, Max realised that he knew what it was—the sketch Verity had been working on in the garden. He gazed at it in shamed silence. How many hours’ work had the two sketches taken, believing all the time that they would be scorned and yet having nothing else to give?

Richard gave him a searching look. ‘Max—has it occurred to you that there might have been some sort of mistake somewhere along the line?’

I’d like…to belong. To be part of people’s lives. Not to be always apart.

He had pushed her away. Guilt rose up in a choking wave. ‘You’d better start without me. I have to find her.’

Richard’s eyes creased in a faint smile. ‘I’ll have some Madeira while I wait.’

Max opened his mouth to protest and, catching a raised
brow, shut it again. He was halfway to the door when Richard spoke again.

‘If you don’t mind some advice—take Gus and Taffy with you. One of the reasons that carving looks a bit skewed is that they kept trying to sit on her lap while I was doing it. I can only surmise that she drugged them to get this done!’

Max nodded abruptly and whistled for the dogs.

He ran her to earth in the stillroom.

She didn’t look up when he opened the door a crack and peered in. His heart lurched to see her sitting in the glow of an oil lamp, surrounded by shadows, with her head bent, sewing. Lavender bags for her clothes? But the material looked a bit coarse for that. And the pungent smell wasn’t right. What then?

He watched her for a moment, the tender, pale curve of her cheek, the slight furrow of concentration in her brow and the steady rhythmic motion of her hands as she worked. Always busy. Every time he saw her, she was doing something. Some small task. Alone. Arranging flowers, sewing, waxing a piece of furniture. And it was never for herself. He realised with a pang that she was used to being busy. Used to having no time for herself. Used to being alone.

Then it came to him—mint. She was using some sort of mint.

Before he could speak, the spaniels, losing patience, shoved past him and charged across the room, hurling themselves at Verity with unfettered delight. Material and herbs scattered as she fended them off.

‘How on earth did you two idiots get…oh!’ The way she shrank back in her chair was like a slap across the face for Max. Even worse was the immediate recovery. The way she sat straight and faced him. As though she faced a firing squad. With her eyes open.

‘My…my lord. Is there something you need?’

He shook his head. ‘I came to find you. Dinner is served.’
Moving slowly he came into the room, realising that her eyes never left his face even as she bent to pet the dogs. Like a wild creature, wary, suspicious, she tracked his every move.

‘I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not very hungry.’

Something inside him twisted savagely.
Can’t eat when she’s upset
…He could see she hadn’t eaten much recently. She’d begun to fill out, but the fashionable new clothes hung on her again. She needed more than safety.

‘I see,’ he said. With a faint smile he crouched down and began to pick up the herbs scattered about the floor. The sharp aroma of mint tugged at his memory and his old nanny’s voice drifted into his mind. As if it were yesterday he remembered her tucking a sprig of mint into his buttonhole as she imparted a bit of folklore. Without thinking he said, ‘In the language of flowers mint stands for virtue.’ He heard the implication as the words left his mouth.

Silence burned between them as he sat back on his heels and raised his eyes to her face and saw briefly the pain, doubled and redoubled with each trembling breath. Her hand curved, shaking, over Taffy’s head.

Then her face blanked, all expression leached from it as her breathing steadied and her hand resumed its caress. Her voice came, devoid of all feeling even as her eyes were shuttered. ‘This, however, is pennyroyal. Its virtue is to repel fleas. For the dogs’ beds.’ Only the slight tremor in her hand betrayed her as she scratched Taffy’s ear, reducing the spaniel to a quivering jelly even as she denied her own pain.

For he
had
hurt her. Again. How long had it taken her to perfect that indifferent mask? How long had it taken her even to realise that she needed one? How old had she been? Fifteen? Sixteen? Unable to help himself, he reached out, laying his hand on hers. The tension in her shocked him. She looked calm, unmoved. But she was taut as a drawn bow.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply. ‘I didn’t mean to insult you.’ Gently he smoothed his thumb over the back of her hand.
The slight roughness drew his attention. Lifting her hand, he looked at it. And realised it was still slightly reddened, chafed from rough work. In a couple of places between the slender fingers he could see where the cracks had begun to heal.

Sharply she tugged at her hand. He held on, ignoring her efforts as well as Taffy’s importunate nose. ‘Is that still painful?’ He stroked one healing crack with a gentle forefinger and felt the fine tremor that took her.

She shook her head. ‘No, my lord. Mrs Henty made up some paste of Palermo. And she found some chicken-skin gloves for me to sleep in. My hands are much better.’

‘Good.’ At least she had found some healing under his roof. But the formality of her response accused him as nothing else could.
My lord.
As though she were beneath his touch. He had done that to her. Taking her other hand, he straightened up slowly, drawing her with him until they stood, hands linked. He looked down at her and found her face raised to his. They stood slightly out of the pool of light. Shadows fell across her face, deepening the dark smudges under her eyes.

Scarcely realising what he was about, his hands slid up her arms, caressing cool silken skin, and on over her throat, where a sudden pulse leapt and skittered under his gentle fingers. To her cheek. Tenderly his thumbs brushed up over the pale cheekbones, as if by doing so he could erase the shadows and coax colour back into them.

‘My lord?’
he asked, continuing to caress her cheek with the backs of his fingers, marvelling at the softness. He’d forgotten how soft and yielding she was. Her breath caught unevenly and then, slowly, one small, hesitant hand lifted to his face. Quivering fingertips traced a wondering path along his jaw, igniting every nerve. He’d forgotten that too…no, that was a lie. He’d
tried
to forget, with a resounding lack of success.

Then, as though she found it nearly impossible, ‘M…Max?’

Never before had his name sounded so sweetly on a woman’s lips and he bent to kiss it from them.

Verity’s senses whirled as she felt the tender pressure of his lips, breathed his musky maleness and tasted his desire as his tongue laved a seductive trail around her lips. For an instant she hesitated, denying the yearning beat of her heart. Madness to surrender, to allow hope to come rushing back with all its doubts and pain. Her body betrayed her, melting in longing as he drew her lower lip between his teeth and bit down with exquisite finesse. A gasp tore from her and instantly his kiss deepened as his tongue slid over hers, stroking, caressing. Possessing.

His arms tightened to steel bands, supporting her as her bones turned to honey and her knees buckled. Her breasts, crushed against his chest, felt swollen, aching with a wildfire need.

He couldn’t get enough of her. Of her sweet, yielding mouth, of the soft cry as his hand closed over one ripe breast and he felt the thrust of a hardened nipple stab his palm through her silken bodice. His loins throbbed as he pulled her closer, shifting against her soft belly in an age-old rhythm. But it was more than desire, more than physical need. Something deep within cried out, aching in its very emptiness. Something he dared not look at.

And he wanted her. God, how he wanted her. Never in his life had he been so shatteringly aroused by a simple kiss. Never before had he wanted to…to simply lift a woman onto the nearest table and take her.

Shock hit him like a sledgehammer as he realised that that was precisely what he was about to do: lift his wife on to the stillroom table, push her skirts to her waist and take her. He had already backed her to the table. Somehow he released her mouth and stepped away slightly, gripping her shoulders to disguise the shaking of his hands. The effort of letting go left him feeling bereft, as though part of him had been ripped away.

Breathing raggedly, he forced his voice to function. Forced it to sound calm, in control. ‘We’d better go down to dinner. Richard will be waiting for us.’

All that kept Verity on her feet was the edge of the stillroom table under her bottom. She registered the support with surprise. How on earth had she got there? She took a careful breath as her shaking fingers found the table edge, and eased herself away from it. Her legs still worked.

Dinner. He did want her to come down. And he had kissed her. Oh, how he had kissed her! Had he forgiven her? Hope blazed brightly as she looked up at him. And dimmed. His face looked set, hard. As though he were angry about something. Cold fear slid through her. Had she disgusted him again? ‘Ma—my lord?’

At that his face softened. ‘There is no
my lord
here, only Max.’ He offered his arm to her.

Her heart leapt in response. ‘Max,’ she whispered, unable to quench the welling hope slicing through her. Never before had she realised that hope could be a double-edged sword.
Only Max. But not his sweetheart.

Chapter Ten

R
ichard smiled as they entered the salon together. ‘About time,’ he observed. ‘Hurry up. The champagne’s de-bubbling even as we speak.’

Verity accepted a glass in a complete daze. What had happened? Why the sudden change in the pair of them? Whatever it was, she found herself seated at the table, champagne fizzing gently in a glass and a selection of dishes being offered to her. And, miracle of miracles, her appetite had returned. She listened as Max and Richard chatted about the day’s news. Repairs to a cottage on the estate, a tree that needed taking down.

After a while Max turned to her and said, ‘You’re very quiet. Did your walk tire you?’

‘A little, but I slept this afternoon.’ She was doing a lot of that recently. So many changes. So much confusion. She often needed a nap after lunch even if she didn’t go for a walk.

He went on. ‘You asked my advice on some household matters the other morning…’

She flinched, remembering his rebuff. ‘I…yes. They weren’t very—’

‘We’ve established that an upside-down fountain will not amuse me. What else was on your list?’

Her jaw nearly dropped at the gently teasing note in his
voice. Simple, unalloyed joy shimmered through her, closing her throat. ‘Some of the pictures, the portraits on the landing, seem rather grubby. Do you know of someone who could clean them safely? It seems a pity not to see your ancestors—’

A crack of laughter from Richard startled her. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d known any of ’em! Pack of pirates and wreckers, the lot of ’em,’ he assured her. ‘I’m sorry to disillusion you about our noble heritage, ma’am, but the first Earl made our fortunes wrecking along this coast. Picking over the ruins of ships flung on the Goodwins and elsewhere. Not exactly an edifying character.’

‘Oh!’ said Verity faintly.
Pirates? Wreckers?
‘Then you would prefer them left as they are, my lord?’

Max appeared to be trying not to laugh. ‘Richard exaggerates,’ he said. ‘Only the first Earl was quite such a villain. The rest of us have been perfectly, ah, respectable.’

Richard nearly choked. ‘Respectable?
Respectable?
’

Max smiled openly. ‘Frederick was respectable,’ he offered.

Richard snorted. ‘And a slow top into the bargain!’ he said. He glanced at Verity. ‘Our older brother,’ he added. ‘He died in a hunting accident three years ago.’

She blinked, the strangest sensation washing through her, of being included, being part of something. Part of their teasing banter. Part of their relationship.

‘Papa?’ suggested Max.

‘Obviously,’ agreed Richard. ‘Mama would never have married him otherwise. But the rest of you…’ He winked at Verity. ‘Our mother was very respectable.’

Verity paled. Obviously the present Countess was letting down the side a trifle. ‘Oh. I…I see.’ Her throat contracted.

Max looked up swiftly. ‘Mama? Respectable? Lord, yes. Far too respectable to tell her aunt a lie to save a servant from dismissal, let alone shelter a pregnant maid.’

Her jaw dropped. Was he saying he preferred her to his well-bred, well brought-up mother?

Max smiled and reached for her hand. ‘She didn’t like the first Earl’s portrait very much. She wanted to put him in the attic, but our father refused. I’ve always rather liked him. After all, he did make our fortunes! An inspiring thought.’

‘I see,’ said Verity, wondering where her breath had gone. How could a gentle handclasp squeeze all the air from her body? Could he see how deeply he affected her? Would it shock him? Desperately she tried to recover. ‘Then…then I shall have your disreputable ancestor cleaned up to inspire you.’

‘You do that,’ said Richard. ‘A little inspiration will do him the world of good. Speaking of which, could you not find a subject more inspiring than my poor self for your birthday gift?’