The Mistress' House Read online

  Yes, she knew a great deal about Richard… far more, she thought, than Roger had realized he was telling her. And now she intended to use the fact that Richard was the traditional one, the one to whom reputation and family mattered above all.

  Lord Colford wasn’t necessarily slow in understanding what she had asked, she reminded herself; he simply hadn’t had time to absorb it all, as she had. He didn’t seem to be stupid or simple—but perhaps he just couldn’t grasp the magnitude of her longing. Or perhaps she hadn’t told him clearly enough.

  She was drawing a breath to try again when he spoke.

  “There are other men you could marry, Miss Mercer. Tradesmen like your father.”

  “I have no wish to marry anyone, Lord Colford. I learned the hard way what to expect from gentlemen—I am not foolish enough to expect a better result now that I am soiled goods. As for the men of my own class, they too put a premium on virginity. In addition, they seldom welcome the idea of a wife who has been educated beyond her station—or theirs.”

  He looked away, obviously unable to meet her eyes.

  Good, Felicity thought. At least he understood the immensity of her problem.

  “In any case,” she went on crisply, “I will not beg or bargain with a man to convince him that I am of value. I have faced the truth. Marriage is not possible for me—nor would I want it, even if it were somehow to come within my reach.” She paused. “What I want—all I want—is a child. I will devote my life to being a good mother.”

  He nodded, as if he understood. Or perhaps, she thought darkly, as if she had confirmed some hidden conviction.

  She looked directly at him. “My lord, will you give me what I ask?”

  “And leave myself open to blackmail for the rest of my life? I think not.”

  She let a smile play across her lips. “I could blackmail you anyway, you know. There are other men who would indulge me. Then if I were to visit Lady Colford in a few months and tell her that the child I carry is yours…”

  The only hint of emotion he displayed was the slightest lift of his eyebrows. He was getting better at concealing his feelings, Felicity admitted. Or perhaps he was simply adjusting to being around her.

  She went on, lightly, “It might be… amusing… to see what she did then.”

  “You might be amused,” he said calmly. “Blanche would not. But neither would she be particularly upset.”

  His cool assessment of Lady Colford sent chills down Felicity’s spine. She wasn’t certain which bothered her more—a wife whom he portrayed as a block of ice or a husband who was so clearly undisturbed by the fact. But, of course, theirs wouldn’t be the first society marriage made because of connections and bloodlines and money, rather than fondness—much less love. Most society couples made their separate ways through life—taking lovers, living apart, agreeing on nothing more than the need for discretion. That was one of many reasons that Felicity wanted no part of the ton.

  “And what faith could I put in your promise of secrecy, if I were to do as you wish?” His voice was low, soft, and very sensual.

  Felicity’s breath caught. Was he going to take her request seriously? “I give you the word of a lady,” she said.

  He smiled and said softly, “But my dear, you’ve just told me that you’re not a lady.”

  ***

  Instantly, Richard regretted saying it. True though it might be that she had not been born a lady, he had uttered an insult of enormous consequence. He waited, breath held, to see how she would react.

  If she had burst into tears—as Blanche could so capably do whenever she felt herself slighted—he would not have been startled, but he would have remained unmoved. Feminine tears, he had learned the hard way, were too often nothing more than a tool for manipulation.

  If she had flared up at him, screaming abuse in return—something else Blanche was quite good at doing—he would not have been surprised. He would have bowed politely and walked away. One shrewish woman in his life was quite enough; he was not about to acquire another.

  Instead, Miss Mercer took a short, sharp breath—in very much the same way as men on the battlefield did, he had noticed, in the instant they absorbed a mortal blow. Her eyes filmed over, but she blinked the tears away, squared her shoulders, and said, “Thank you for hearing me out, my lord. Good day.” Her voice was low and full of pain and dignity and sheer raw sensuality.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I should not have said… what I did. Not only was it rude and unthinkably offensive, but it is not true. You are far more a lady than many who can claim the title from birth.”

  “Thank you for that much, my lord.” She turned away, her hand outstretched for the bellpull. “And for hearing me out before you refused my request.”

  It was done. Over. All he had to do was bow and walk away.

  Instead, Richard caught her wrist, preventing her from summoning the butler. Her bones felt fragile in his grasp, yet he was startled to realize that a power within her held him just as tightly as he was holding her. “But I have not refused.”

  She looked up at him, and he watched as her eyes widened. A man could drown himself in those eyes, he thought, and never even think about coming up for air.

  “If this is truly what you want, Miss Mercer…”

  “It is,” she whispered, and the tip of her tongue flicked against her lower lip.

  A primal urge slammed through him. Desire, pure and simple—the automatic reaction of a male to a female who had shown herself eager for his attentions. And he had no doubt of that; he could smell the sensuality that seeped from her. At this moment, her entire being was passion at its most primitive, its most needy—even though wrapped in the trappings of a lady. The combination was oddly erotic, and one that sent lust surging through his veins.

  Richard knew with dreadful clarity that no matter what it might cost him, he could not simply walk away.

  She looked at him directly—her chin held high. “You see,” she whispered, “I loved him.”

  For a moment, reminded of his brother, he almost let her go. Almost. But the lust was too strong, the need too overwhelming. He would satisfy her fantasy, fulfill her desire—and at the same time, slake his own urges.

  “I loved him, too,” he said hoarsely. But though that was true enough, it was not the reason he would grant her request.

  For a moment, they stood there as Richard quivered on the brink—trying to regain his senses, even though he knew it was too late. Then he said, “As you wish, Miss Mercer. Shall we begin?”

  ***

  He did not touch her or even offer his arm, but Felicity was so aware of him just behind her on the stairway that her skin prickled and her knees trembled. She was astounded that she could walk at all.

  She paused at the top of the stairs, wondering for an instant what to do next. She had never thought this far into her plan; she supposed she had never truly believed that he would grant her request.

  She shuddered at the idea of taking him to her own room, for it was her haven, her most treasured spot. If she’d had any idea that he’d actually agree, she would have ordered a fire in the main bedroom—the green-velvet one that had so obviously been intended for seduction—to take the chill off the unused room. But now there wasn’t a servant to be seen. They really were very well trained, she thought a little irritably. She had caught no more than the glimpse of an apron whisking out of view around a corner as she and Richard climbed the stairs.

  Perhaps she should simply ask him to come back another time? Tomorrow would do as well…

  But instantly she dismissed the notion. She must seize the moment—for once he left her, he might never return. She couldn’t blame him if, once he gained some distance from the emotion of this encounter, he had second thoughts. She was having a few herself… but only a few.

  No. This afternoon, this moment in time, was all she would have—all she would dare to ask for. She must make it count.

  She pushed open the door of the sitting r
oom that lay next to the green-velvet bedroom, and stopped short. The apron-clad maid she had spotted rounding the corner must have been in this room—for a fire was burning merrily in the grate and candles stood ready, with one already alight.

  Lord Hawthorne’s servants were indeed worth whatever he paid them, she thought—for they had read not only the situation but her mind as well.

  “Miss Mercer?” Lord Colford asked.

  “Through here.” She led the way into the bedroom, where she was not surprised to find the velvet hangings pushed back invitingly and the coverlet already turned down. Here, too, a fire had been lit and candles glowed. The chill had already left the room.

  She turned to face him and caught an intense look in his eyes. Suddenly realization of the magnitude of what she was about to do—of what she was asking—flooded over her. “I shall be a good mother, my lord. My child will never want for love—or for anything else.”

  He reached out to put his hands on her shoulders and gently pulled her close, tipping up her face to his. “I believe you,” he said, and brushed his lips across hers.

  The kiss was not even remotely sexual. It was a salute, a gesture of honor, a pledge—all wrapped into one.

  She stayed quiescent in his arms, and when he released her, she quietly went about undressing. Doing her best to pretend he wasn’t watching her, she folded her dress across the back of a chair and sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing her chemise as she lifted up the sheet.

  “Take it off,” he said softly.

  “Why? It’s not…” She felt herself flush. “It’s not necessary.”

  “Then why bother to take your dress off when you could have just lifted your skirt? Why bother to bring me to a bedroom? The drawing-room floor would have done as well for the purpose.”

  Her voice caught. “You needn’t be crude.”

  “Have the goodness to at least pretend that what we are doing is different from a stallion with a mare, Miss Mercer.”

  She bit her lip. Then she slowly took off her chemise and laid it aside. She started to slip beneath the sheet, but he caught her hand and stopped her and then pulled the sheet back to the end of the bed so she was fully exposed.

  He didn’t take his gaze off her as he disrobed. Felicity had never felt as naked as she did lying there on the bed while he looked his fill. She tried not to look at him, but it was impossible not to notice the broad shoulders and the dusting of golden hair that formed a triangle on his chest and drew her gaze slowly downward as he took off his smalls.

  “Oh,” she said—half in admiration, half in dismay.

  The mattress shifted as he lay down beside her. He brushed a hand lightly over her breast, and her skin quivered.

  “You needn’t do anything except…” Her voice cracked.

  “Except the main event? If you’re telling me you don’t want me to touch you, Miss Mercer, then it may be a little difficult to achieve your purpose.”

  “Of course not. I just meant… if you need to do… anything… to get ready… then, of course, do so. But you needn’t concern yourself with…”

  “With your comfort? Very well.” He gently pushed her legs apart, settled himself there, and nudged his erection against her core. Then he stilled, letting her feel his weight and the heat of his penis. “Brace yourself.”

  Felicity twitched a little, her muscles tightening. He was so big… surely he was going to hurt her.

  “That’s what I thought.” He rolled, taking her with him, until he was lying on his side but still nestled between her legs. He cupped her breast with one hand, toying with it, stimulating her nipple with his thumb, and insinuated his other hand between her legs.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Every farmer knows that soil is more fertile when it has been properly prepared.” This time his lips were hot against hers, his tongue tracing her mouth until she opened for him. His fingertip slipped through the curls between her legs and found the little nub of sensitive flesh there. The rhythm of the stroking of both places—slow and intense—began to build inside her. All the heat in her body seemed to follow, pooling around his touch. She quivered and strained toward him. “Patience,” he whispered. “Give yourself time.”

  The emptiness inside her ached. She tugged at him, and finally he rolled her onto her back and entered her, moving slowly and carefully. She felt herself stretching to accommodate him, but she was no longer afraid that he might hurt her. He was just the right size—and she welcomed him, inch by inch, until he was fully inside her.

  Slowly he began to thrust, sliding deeply within her, only to pull almost entirely away before once more advancing. His touch was gentle and firm at the same time, sure and deliberate, as he stroked her over and over until she thought the heat and friction of his rhythm would set her ablaze.

  She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer. When she tried to catch his rhythm to bring him even deeper within her, he shifted suddenly to quick, shallow strokes, and suddenly sparks danced across her vision and her body clenched in a long, slow, shuddering release. He held himself still for a moment as she convulsed around him, and then he once more plunged fully inside her.

  Felicity’s eyes wouldn’t focus. Her thoughts were a hodgepodge. Her senses were aflame.

  “Roger,” she whispered.

  He stilled for an instant. Then, very slowly, he began to move once more, and before she had even regained her breath, he had once more driven her over the brink. This time, as she climaxed, she shrieked. He caught her wordless cry with his lips, and with a hoarse groan, he released his seed.

  It took a while before Felicity’s breath stopped rasping and came easily once more. She opened her eyes and realized he was watching her, his gaze sober and thoughtful. His face was only an inch from hers, so close that she could count his individual eyelashes, long and golden and curly.

  Now what? she asked herself. Embarrassment flooded through her. They were still intimately entwined, tangled together just as they’d collapsed. She supposed that lovers would take advantage of this time to caress and kiss and whisper soft words. But they weren’t lovers… not in anything but the raw physical fact. So what were they supposed to do now?

  She’d never thought about the practical aspects of this whole situation—like exactly how, after the deed was done, to go about disentangling herself from him. How to get her clothes back on. How to get him to the door. How to say good-bye…

  “You should not rise for at least a few minutes,” he said. “I shall call on you tomorrow.”

  She was startled. “I hardly think that will be necessary.”

  “Only time will show whether it is or not.” His voice was level. “To have the best chance of success, it would seem a practical move to… repeat the process.”

  “Oh.” Felicity’s face was hot with shame. “Of course.”

  “Then I will see myself out. Until tomorrow.” Efficiently, but without hurry, he gathered his clothing, dressed, and was gone.

  ***

  He had done exactly what she had asked of him. The matter should have been finished. Perhaps this one encounter would be enough to result in the child she said she craved. Richard had certainly done his part; he could not recall having had such a powerful reaction to any other woman, ever.

  He should have been pleased to be finished, eager to be gone, content to leave the matter to chance.

  Instead, he had made an assignation for the morrow. Why?

  Because, in the midst of her passion, she had called out his brother’s name? That wasn’t a surprise, exactly—considering that she had only settled for his seed because Roger was gone. But it pricked his pride.

  Roger had been the favorite son; even from his earliest childhood Richard had known that. It was simply a fact, and he had always accepted it as such. Even when the old Earl had been outraged by Roger’s behavior, he had always shown a tinge of pride in the spirited defiance Roger showed and the way he managed to push aside obstacle
s to get his way.

  Richard, meanwhile, had been the dutiful son—the quiet one who watched over the family estates, who tended to the tenants’ needs, who listened to the steward’s ideas and put them into action, who never once rebelled. He was the farmer who knew how to make the soil most fertile…

  He had not resented Roger for always having first choice of whatever he wanted. Not until now, at least. For Felicity Mercer had been no different to Roger than the toys they had shared in childhood. Roger had seen her, wanted her, taken her… and discarded her.

  Richard was certain that she had never before experienced anything like the pleasure he had given her today. Roger might have bedded her, but he had not made love to her; Richard was the one who had initiated her into the joy of lovemaking.

  Yet she had called out Roger’s name.

  Next time, it will be mine. The thought was fierce, steely, primitive.

  Only then would he be done with her—after he had planted himself so deeply within her body, and within her memories, that she could never again pretend that Roger was the one who had made her soar.

  ***

  Anne’s modiste had hurried to produce a few morning dresses and walking gowns for Felicity, but the remainder of the wardrobe she had ordered was still to be completed. Anne went with her for fittings the next morning, and they were poked and pinned in unison, each with a team of seamstresses working over her.

  “The current fashion is quite a good thing for a woman in my circumstances,” Anne said lightly as the modiste pinned her into a royal blue gown with a very high waist. “As long as the seamstresses leave enough room in all the seams for my maid to let them out a bit, I’ll be able to wear these for months. And a good thing that will be, too—since in a few weeks we’ll be going home to Surrey. I won’t get a glimpse of London again ’til after the baby comes.”

  “And by the time the Season starts next spring and the new fashions take hold, you’ll have regained your shape. You couldn’t have timed it more perfectly. That’s a really wonderful color for you, Anne. I wish I looked as good in those dark, rich shades as you do.”