Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (17 page)

“But I like to arrange lives. Left to themselves, people so often make a muddle of it!”

“Sometimes muddle is just what is needed. What
you
need, Diana, is a family of your own to manage.”

Diana raised her chin. “You know I will not marry.”

“Such foolishness. What use your precious independence when you are alone and bored?”

“I’m not bored. I live a very interesting life.”

“Then don’t interfere in the lives of others. Why not play for us, dear.”

Diana rose with a flurry of silken skirts. “Very well. But considering how often you have lectured me about tidiness, Mama, I think it very inconsistent of you to preach muddle. Come, Rosa. Let’s play an orderly duet.”

As they walked toward the harpsichord, Aunt Arradale’s voice pursued them. “The difference, Diana, is that human affairs are
supposed
to be muddled. That’s when matters work out for the best. In a tidy world, your father would never have married me. He’d have married the Duke of Langton’s daughter and been miserable.”

Diana rolled her eyes at Rosamunde, then turned to look through the stack of sheet music by the instrument.

Rosamunde, however, pondered her aunt’s words. Her own marriage was not at all muddled. It had been a tidy solution to her problem, and had been orderly from the moment she’d left the church on Digby’s arm. It was also lacking. She wasn’t used to thinking of it like that, but it was. It had never occurred to her that mature lives were supposed to be anything but orderly, but if someone as clear-sighted and intelligent as Aunt Arradale thought so….

As Diana pulled out a sheet of music and sat down, Rosamunde had to suppress a laugh. If muddle was proper, her life at the moment was the epitome of propriety! She sat and looked at the music, then began to pick out her part. As she and Diana made order out of the muddle of notes and settled into the sprightly duet, she glanced out of the long windows, across
the well-tended grounds, straining to see a particular window through the trees.

What was he doing? Thinking?

Her notes clashed with her cousin’s and she hastily paid attention to the music. Not about duty, she prayed as she followed the notes. Nor payment of a debt. Please let it be more than that. She knew it was. Perilously more.

The windowpane shadows darkened and lengthened as golden evening sank into red. Soon would come night.

Night, secret night.

The prime occasion of secrets, muddle, and sin.

When dimness caused the dowager to ring for candles to be lit, Rosamunde excused herself to go to bed. Diana immediately said she would go up, too. The dowager looked at them, and it was as if fifteen years had evaporated. Rosie and Dinah up to mischief again.

All she said, however, was, “Good night, my dears.” Once they were safe in a bedroom, Rosamunde said, “I’m sure she guesses. This is
terrible!
”

“You thought Mrs. Yockenthwait guessed. And even your mother.”

“But this is
Aunt Arradale!
”

Diana rolled her eyes. “Do you, too, sometimes wonder whether she has a birch tucked away?”

Rosamunde laughed, but heard it swirl toward wildness. Rubbing clammy hands on her skirts, she tried to steady her mind. The moon was slight, and though she knew the grounds well, she wanted to cross the park before full darkness settled. “I must go.”

“Yes. This is quite extraordinary, you know.”

“Of course I know!”

“I mean, watching you go, knowing what you are going to do.” A quick frown tangled her brows. “At least you’re getting to do it!”

“I got to do it on my wedding night.”

“This clearly isn’t the same. There’s something about you now.”

“Something … ?” Rosamunde looked down at herself as if it might show. “What?”

“You’ve changed. Of course, your mind is elsewhere, but you move differently. It’s a little thing, but it’s changed you.”

“Oh, I do hope not!”

Diana whirled and picked up Rosamunde’s shawl, wrapping it tenderly around her. “Ignore me. Go! I’ll make sure no one notices your absence. And don’t forget the soporific.”

Rosamunde patted her pocket, though she hated the thought of using it. “I’m not—”

She had been about to say that she wasn’t doing this out of choice, but of course that wasn’t true.

“Yes, you are!” Diana smiled. “I’m sorry, dearest. Truth is, I’m envious. I don’t suppose he’d care to move in here for a day or two.”

It was clearly a joke, but a fierce “No!” escaped Rosamunde, leaving her brutally exposed.

“Oh love,” said Diana softly, “don’t.”

Rosamunde tightened the shawl, unable to resist a check of her appearance in the long mirror. Because it was Arradale, she was wearing one of her finer gowns, a pale pink silk, trimmed with cream lace and pearls. It still wasn’t how she wanted to appear tonight. It was a young girl’s dress, the style that Digby favored for her.

“It’s just a silly infatuation,” she said, turning away. “I think we women are inclined to fancy ourselves in love with the men we do this with.” She cast a quick, wry look at the frustrated Countess of Arradale. “A warning to you, if you like.”

“That if I took a lover, I might fancy myself in love? I find that hard to believe, but I’ll bear it in mind.” She hugged Rosamunde and pushed her toward the door. “Go. Enjoy it for both of us!”

Rosamunde laughed and left the room to slip rapidly through the warren of a house she knew so well. She left by a small side door and gravel crunched beneath her feet as she followed the path that encircled the house. Then she struck off across springy grass toward the stand of trees that screened the dower house.

Then, even through night-dark trees, she saw a glimmering light.

He’d placed a candle in his window and it shone like a beacon to guide her.

Brand had set his candle close to the window.

He’d seen his lady leave earlier, accompanied by the fat maid who’d brought his dinner. He hadn’t seen either of them return, despite almost constant vigil. It was frustratingly possible that she’d return from another direction, and ridiculous to think that she might lose her way.

It was night, though, and not long past the new moon. He hated the thought of her out alone in the dark.

He tried to be rational and concentrate on the book, but despite the interesting subject, words passed through his mind like water.

He concentrated harder. The writer had some intriguing ideas about achieving specific improvements in stock through careful breeding. It was a chancy business, however, as everyone knew from life. A strong-featured
man might marry a pretty woman and have pretty sons, and heavy-faced daughters.

What sort of children would they … ?

No.

But they could have made a child.

If so, it would be counted as her husband’s. No business of his.

Easy to think, less easy to live by.

Perhaps in nine months or so he should seek her out to make sure all was well. If it was, he’d not endanger her reputation.

He muttered a curse at his own duplicity. If he found her again, he’d be back in the morass. Perhaps he should break out of here now and run. It wouldn’t be hard to escape.

Hand marking the place on the page, he tried to summon the willpower to leave. And failed. Nothing would stop him draining the unsatisfactory cup.

The book, he reminded himself.

Planned breeding programs.

Targeted breeding wasn’t new. People had tried for champion racehorses for centuries and, for even longer, devotees had bred pit bulls and fighting cocks for strength and aggression. In those cases, however, they were willing to discard hundreds of failures in the search for one champion. A farmer needed a better success rate than that. The book suggested scientific ways to increase the success rate.

He managed to fix his interest on the text and was startled when the key turned and she came in. He looked first at her face and hit the frustrating grotesquerie of her mask, so he quickly looked lower for hints about her mood.

Nervous, but not as awkward as the first time.

In the process he couldn’t help but notice that she was wearing her first low bodice, which made the magnificent best of her figure.

Hot desire hit like a lightning bolt.

Silk, he thought desperately, trying to keep control. Pink silk. Lace. Bows. Pretty. Feminine.

Not right for her.

Not for his mysterious lady.

She might be pretty, and she was certainly feminine, but she possessed more womanly strength than the gown suggested, and more character, too. He’d dress her in earthy colors. Subtle greens, warm browns, cream. Blackberry purple …

He was just sitting there. Putting the book aside, he rose to give her the honor of a full, courtly bow. “Welcome, mistress.”

She seemed frozen, too, and he wondered if she almost hadn’t come. Should he move between her and the door to prevent escape?

Then she jerked into movement, hurrying toward the candle. He caught her wrist as she passed. “It was daylight before.”

“It’s not daylight now.” Her tendons ran stiff beneath his fingers.

“Candlelight is very becoming.”

Her head tilted back as if she prayed. “I need,” she whispered, “darkness.”

Why had it been possible earlier in daylight, but not now? What had changed? He wanted very much to love her by candlelight, but he let her go, licked his finger and thumb, and pinched out the flame. “Now, mistress,” he asked in the dark, “what else do you command?”

With the lack of light, his other senses sparked. He fancied he could hear the rustle of her gown as she breathed. Certainly he could smell the flower perfume that would ever after be linked in his mind with this strange affair.

With her.

“Should I undress?” she whispered.

“It is as you desire.” Did his voice carry his bewildering tremor of raw desire?

What was he? A callow youth?

She moved suddenly, distressfully. “Tell me what to do.”

He spoke his need. “Surrender. Give up your command. Give it to me. Be my slave for the night.”

“Indentured servant,” she retorted. Perhaps she took a step away.

“Slave.”

His eyes were settling to the dark. He saw her turn her head, as if trying to study him. “What if you do something I don’t like?”

“Tell me. My aim will be your delight, I promise. Trust me.”

That, above all, he wanted. Her trust.

“Why should I?”

The cold question hurt. “That is for you to decide.”

She moved restlessly, over to the bed and back, skirts whispering of secrets and senses. “You won’t do anything … to distress me?”

“I can’t promise that. We have only a few hours in which to learn what distresses us and pleases us. Quite likely we will never meet again.” He said it deliberately, and heard her stifled protest. “It seems a shame to spend our last night blandly. Though, if that is your wish, it shall be my command.”

She stood still, so perfectly still that he could detect neither rustle nor breath. Then she turned, and sank to her knees before him. “I am yours, then. Pleasure me as you will, my lord. Until dawn.”

My lord?
He’d not told her of his title. But then he realized it was just part of the game. A synonym for master. A happy whimsy. It pleased him that she would use his true title throughout this special night.

He settled his hands on her warm, soft shoulders, slid them across satin skin, feeling her rapid pulse. No faster than his. As he circled her neck, tension set her muscles and she swallowed, but she remained acquiescent. He wasn’t sure he was breathing at all in this stunning, meaningless moment.

Then: “Welcome, slave,” he said, and took her hands to draw her up into his arms. He sat, settling her on his lap. His hand found the swell of her full breasts above her stiff corset.

If she were truly his, he’d command her to wear lower bodices. She had the figure for them. But then again, if she were his, he might want her beauty to be for him alone.

He was just holding her, his fingers exploring that discreet rise of flesh. With a bemused smile he realized that her total surrender had left him rather at a loss. What
did
he want to do with her?

Cherish her.

Forever.

Holding her closer, he rubbed his face gently in her silky hair. “I wish we had longer.”

“Why?”

“Then we could waste more time like this.”

She moved infinitesimally closer. “This doesn’t feel like a waste of time.”

“It doesn’t, does it?” With closeness, lust had simmered down for a while. He moved his hand up, up to the tender skin of her nape, and the tangling tease of her hair, longing to kiss her. He wouldn’t ask again that she remove the mask, for she clearly had her reasons. Perhaps she was a stunning beauty, known far and wide. Perhaps she was scarred by the pox.

Neither mattered.

He breathed in her scent and, ignoring the bothersome strings of the mask, tested her ear with his tongue.

She sucked in a breath. He smiled, and teased her a little more, exploring the curves and ridges, and the softlobe. Then he sucked it.

Her hand clutched at his arm. He blew softly into her ear, a breath only, but he knew how it would sound to her, here in the dark, in the heat of their closeness.

“You can’t,” she said, unsteadily, “make love to an ear.”

“Never say can’t to a man on his mettle.” And he proceeded to make delicate love to her ear, only letting his hands take the smallest part—one playing in the wonders of her nape, the other wound with one of hers, sensing her growing tension.

She suddenly laughed, a gasping laugh. “Stop!”

He nipped her. “You surrendered, slave.”

“But please. I want more.”

So he raised her hand, and freeing it from his tangling fingers, made love to it, to each separate finger in turn. He suckled and stroked each in his mouth, then moved between the smoothness of the back, and the hot sensitivity of the heart of her palm.

He nipped the pad at the base of her thumb. “I have a complaint.”

She tensed. “What?”

“There was no blackberry pie for dinner.”