His Lady Mistress (23 page)

She wriggled closer and he felt her cheek shift against his shoulder. ‘No…oh, no. I…oh, Max, please hold me…’

He closed his eyes in despair. That same soul-wrenching intimacy he’d found with her before flooded him. He should leave now. Soft, moist kisses trembled over his collarbone and seared his heart. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not until she slept. He set his jaw to endure.

She awoke in utter darkness, reaching for him. And found only emptiness. Her mind awash with sleep, she sat up. Had she dreamed…no. Her body melted with remembered ecstasy. She couldn’t have dreamed
that
…what he had done to her…how he had loved her. Her mind reeled. She could never have imagined such a thing. But he was gone. Without…Her cheeks mantled with heat in the dark, as she searched for the right words. He hadn’t…hadn’t taken her.

The last thing she could remember was the hard tension in his body as he held her and tenderly caressed her as she drifted…He’d seemed worried…thinking that he had hurt her and she’d begged him to keep holding her, loving the intimacy, the tenderness of his embrace. Expecting that any moment he would want her. Would seek his own pleasure. She had longed for it, longed to give herself fully.

She must have fallen asleep in his arms. And he had been too considerate to awaken her. She smiled in the darkness, joy humming through her, despite the ache of wishing that he had taken his pleasure deep inside her. He had come to her, had made love to her again in a wild passion of intimacy.

There was nothing to be uneasy about. She couldn’t, wouldn’t believe that she had disgusted him. Why would he
make love to her like
that
, encourage her response, if it disgusted him? She smiled into the darkness and wriggled deeper into the soft feathers of her bed. Tomorrow—no, this morning, she would go down to breakfast.

A week later Max stood staring at the door leading to his wife’s bedchamber. A week since he had first gone to her bed. A week passed in a halcyon blaze of sunshine and delight in which Verity had blossomed and changed before his eyes.

He
felt as though he were being stretched on the rack, closer and closer to breaking point. And it was his own stupid fault. He had spent his days with her as well as his nights. She had accompanied him for drives asking a hundred questions about the estate, his tenants. He had practically force fed her if he didn’t think she’d eaten enough, until she complained that she felt like a goose being fattened for the table.

She was happy. Happy, dammit! And he was lying to her. Oh, not directly. But by all the things he hadn’t said. By what he was doing. Every night he went to her bed, blew out the lamps and pleasured her with all the skill and tenderness he could muster, denying himself his own pleasure. Even the pleasure of
seeing
her response to his loving. He didn’t dare.

He dare not even allow her to fall asleep in his arms. The temptation to take her burnt at his resolve, searing deeper every night. Any other woman he would have shown how to ease him, how to return the pleasure. With her, he didn’t dare.

His candle danced and flickered, casting light as fragile as his own control. It would take the merest whisper to destroy it. One touch was probably all it would take to push him beyond the edges of his control. He should return to his own bed. She was too lovely, too tempting. Each night it became harder and harder to leave her. So far she had said nothing, but last night the wistful note in her voice as she bade him goodnight had left an aching hollow.

Madness. Sheer madness. His hand reached for the handle as he blew out the candle and placed it on the table by the door.

Verity waited, sitting up against her pillows. She must be doing something wrong. Each night he came to her and made love to her in the darkness.

Always in darkness. With a sigh she leaned over and turned down the bedside lamp. Max always did that before he joined her in bed to pleasure her until she cried out and begged for release. A tremor took her body at the thought of the tender intimacy of his hands, the heated, silky caress of his mouth and tongue, loving her until the darkness shattered in fire.

Yet he never took his own pleasure, never possessed her body with his. Every night he left her. And every night she could sense the coiled frustration within him, feel the flickering tension. She must be doing something wrong. But what? Her response? But then why did he do all those things that brought her response welling up? She could only think of one thing.

He had once told her that he knew he had hurt her the night he took her virginity. That it would never be like that for her again. Perhaps he wanted to be quite sure that she wanted him…she blushed…inside her, before he took her again. Perhaps…her blush scorched her cheeks…perhaps she needed to tell him, plainly, that she wanted
him
, before he would possess her fully.

Tonight then. Tonight she would tell him. Tell him she loved him, that she wanted him, longed to have his child. He had been so dear and tender with her over the past week. Somehow all the anger had gone, leaving Max, her lover. He had never spoken of love, but she could not doubt that he cared for her a little at least. That he would be gentle with her love even if he never returned it.

Tonight then would be different. Tonight she would finally become his wife. In truth as well as name.

The door clicked open. Then a soft voice. ‘Verity—are you asleep?’

‘N…no.’

She heard his footsteps, the whisper as his dressing gown landed on the floor and then felt his hard, warm body beside hers.

Gentle arms drawing her close, lips that traced a possessive, aching trail to her breasts. Hands that knew her, demanded every wild response her body could make and then coaxed more from her. Heated kisses that filled her mouth with the taste of his desire and drifted lower over her quivering body to savour her in the sweetest, most shocking intimacy. Until at the last she cried out, twisting and lifting against his caressing mouth, frantic, burning with the need coiling inside her. A need that burst into incandescent delight, spearing her to the core as she fell, shaking with the force of her release. Held together by the strength of her love.

Holding her gently as she came back to herself, Max fought against his own desire. To possess her completely. To be sheathed to the hilt as she shattered in ecstasy…He should leave. At once.

Her mouth brushed his, soft arms twining around his neck, drawing him closer. ‘Please, Max. Stay. Don’t leave me.’

Pain burst inside him at the naked plea, at the break in her voice as though she barely had breath. A small trembling hand slid down his body, traced the clenched muscle of his thigh, reached further and found his aching, rigid flesh. Restraint incinerated at the touch of her innocent, questing fingers. Dazed, he realised that he already had her half beneath him, that he had pushed her thighs apart…

‘Max? I love you so much. I…I want you…inside me. Please?’

He had one thigh cradled between hers and she arched against him, lifting her leg to wrap it around him. Fire burst as her soft, moist heat caressed him. Once. Just once. Surely
just once…He pushed her thighs wide, settling between. He reached one hand between their bodies, caressing her, opening her. She was so soft, moist, welcoming…and his, all his. Once. Just once.

‘A baby,’ she whispered, her mouth quivering against his as he pressed into her. ‘Please, Max.’

His blood hammered violently. She wanted his baby. She would be his in the most elemental way possible, bearing their child. Every muscle hardened as he pushed into the supple body surrendered to him. A
baby
. He froze, as every reason he should
not
be sinking into her soft core reasserted itself. With a savage curse he pulled away, rolling off her to lie shaking with need.

‘M…Max?’ A small, uncertain hand touched his arm.

‘No!’ The refusal burst from him as he jerked away from her shaking hand and swung his legs to the floor.

Shocked silence hung in the darkness as he left. The slam of the door shook her heart. Alone in the darkness she faced what she had done.

She had pleaded with him to stay. Tears trickled down her cheek. She had told him that she wanted him inside her. Shame burnt her cheeks. He probably thought her a wanton. Worse, she had told him that she loved him, that she wanted his baby. And he had left. Pain was a barbed hook, tearing inside. She had so little to offer him. And what little she had, he didn’t want.

She felt like some small sea creature dragged from its protective shell, naked and vulnerable on the beach. She had dared to dream this last week. A week of glorious days when Max drove with her, showed her his favourite haunts and helped her plan out her ideas for the garden. When he explained how the estate ran and enlisted her help with it. Days when her dream of no longer being apart seemed within her grasp. Days when she dared to dream that he loved her. Her
dream had turned out to be just that. A dream, an insubstantial mockery of all she longed for. She had destroyed it by asking too much.

Max stared unseeingly at the estate reports Richard had handed him two hours ago. They made no more sense now than they had then. Where was Verity this morning? Was she about the house, or had she slipped out into the garden? She usually came in to see him after breakfast. He hadn’t been at breakfast. He’d eaten some bread and cheese earlier and gone for a walk—to avoid her.

He frowned—the yields for the orchards were up. Hmm. Perhaps he should visit them soon. Verity could come. He’d need to find a horse for her. A dainty little mare. Something gentle…He jerked his mind back to the matter at hand.

Extra profits. That was good. He noted the extra profit on a scrap of paper. A couple of cottages needed repairs before winter gales set in. And what about something extra to help out Martha Granger for a year or so? Of course, she’d have Sarah’s board, but a little more wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps they could ride by Martha’s cottage. How like Verity to think of helping her with a boarder…and her son’s child…Oh, hell! How the devil had the chit managed to weave herself into the fabric of his life so effortlessly, until he couldn’t imagine life without her? Even now, he found himself wishing she had come in as she often did to ask questions about the estate and add up columns of figures for him.

He knew why she hadn’t come in this morning. He groaned and pushed his chair back from the desk. Guilt flayed him. Last night…He should have explained to her…why he would never give her a child…And the thought of her having his child burned to his soul. She had all but begged him.

He took a couple of restless steps. What the hell was he to do? All those years of being the spare. The unspoken differences made between Frederick, the heir, and his younger twin brothers, the spares. The distance it had created between them growing up. And then Freddy had died, leaving Max
next in line for the earldom with Richard as the remaining spare. Half an hour between their births. Half an hour to make the difference between heir and spare.

He’d sworn to himself that the difference would never become a reality. He might have been able to deal with that. But the promise to his mother remained…Then he’d had to marry Verity.

At first he’d been so damned angry with her that it had never occurred to him that his desire for her would be so overwhelming. He had intended to stay angry and hold her safely at a distance. He’d intended to take a mistress to deal with his physical needs. She had everything she required—a home, security, plenty of money—but he couldn’t be angry with her.

Last night…His body ached at the memory of her shy advances, the uncertain kisses, her trembling hands, her body twisting, pleading for his possession. He’d wanted to sink into her so deeply that they would never be truly apart again, to feel her sweetness become a part of him.

He had to tell her the truth—why he’d never intended to marry and why he could never give her a child. Now, when she cared for him, loved him, trusted him. He swallowed. She had told him she loved him, her breath breaking as she pleaded for him to give her a child, her breath the softest caress on his lips…How the hell was he to tell her that he would never give her a child?

Oh, God! It would have been so much easier if he could have held on to his anger. If she were not so sweet, so damned trusting. If it were only a physical need, not this soul-deep yearning to possess her in every way. Body, mind and soul.

His quill sputtered on the page of figures. He muttered a curse and reached for the pen cutter. Again. This morning he couldn’t manage the simplest task, such as trimming his pen, without making a mull of it. All he could think of was Verity.
Coming apart in his arms, pleading with him to take her. Offering her love.

How could he accept that and offer her nothing in return, least of all the child she longed for? His conscience went straight for the throat.
You didn’t accept it. You flung it straight back in her face.

Swearing, he pushed the chair back from his desk. The best thing he could do was go down to the stables, saddle a horse and go for a ride. A damned long one. If the saddle was uncomfortable, he only had himself to thank for it. Besides, the ache in his heart was a damn sight worse.

Chapter Eleven

‘C
heck.’

Richard’s mildly triumphant tones penetrated the tired haze enveloping Verity’s mind. Blinking, she frowned at the chessboard and forced herself to think. The sun poured down on her shoulders as she belatedly recognised a trap, one that Papa had used. She should have seen it coming.

Just as she should have realised that Max didn’t want her. Hindsight was a wonderful thing. Now, seeing where she had ended up, she understood exactly how Richard had led her to
point non plus
, with one move that would hand him her king.

She could now see that Max’s avoidance of full intimacy with her had been a warning sign, that her own longing had led her into the trap of hoping—worse, of believing that he cared a little for her. She had told him she loved him. Dear God, how could she have been such a naïve little fool?