An Experienced Mistress (7 page)

Beautiful eyes.

Hardly thinking, Will said in a low tone, “A man could get lost in those green eyes of yours, as easily as getting lost at sea.”

Genevieve blinked. Her lips parted as though she was astonished. Her gaze took on a soft intensity.

“That was very good,” she said.

Well, it had been easy enough, only the merest truth.

This wasn’t so difficult. He could say whatever came into his head. Here he’d no chance of being betrayed, rebuffed, for any romantic feeling he put into words.

After all, it was only a game.

“When I first saw you in your white dress, in the art gallery,” he told her, “you looked like an angel among the mortals.”

His new mistress said nothing in reply. She stared at him as if rapt.

“Though my thoughts were far from pure,” he added.

She clucked her tongue in indignation. “Is that the way one wins a lady’s heart?”

“Is it?”

She looked uncertain.

This was not the look of a worldly mistress.

“I knew right then I had to have you,” he said in a lower voice still. She leaned forward, perhaps unconsciously. “I want you, Genevieve. Do you not want me?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Then she straightened up again.

“Yes,” she repeated, but in a brisk voice. “That is excellent. Pray continue.”

Pray continue? Good God, this woman was enough to make one mad. Will reminded himself that they only play-acted. He tried to think of some other glib compliment. Then they could move on.

“I wanted to know you were not just some romantic vision of mine,” he said. Once the invented words passed his lips, they had the ring of truth, even to his own ears.

What were they doing, exactly? God help him, he did feel a bit at sea. He wanted to throw her down on the settee, tear off her clothes, and end the confusion.

“I wanted to lay my hands on you and know you were real.”

“Touch me,” she murmured.

Her voice was so soft he wasn’t sure he heard her. “What?”

“We can move on to the next step,” she said. “Touching.” Her throat must have been dry, despite the brandy she drank, because her voice cracked a little.

She looked out the window, as if thoughtful. “You may begin with my hair. Women love to have their hair touched. More than men realize, I think.”

Will didn’t hesitate. He leaned in to do what he wanted to when she first opened the door: take out one of her hairpins and let a lock of her red-gold hair tumble down.

He sat very close to her, close enough that he felt her breath on his cheek. He reached toward her chignon, but then paused, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Women love to have their hair touched?” he asked in an undertone. “Or do you in particular enjoy it?”

Her head still held up proudly, she dropped her gaze, so that he couldn’t read the expression in her eyes. He saw heavy lids, feathery lashes.

“Both.”

Will scrutinized her a moment longer before turning his attention to the task. His hands went to either side of her head, his fingers reaching around to the back. Her mouth was only a couple of inches from his—he used all his self-restraint not to cover it with his own.

He found something arousing in focusing his attention on such a specific thing. Will worried that it might feel forced, awkward, to play this game. But it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

With care, he located and plucked out a jeweled hairpin. She licked her lips. He removed another pin and another, until her hair cascaded down, loose and free.

No wonder ladies weren’t allowed to go around with their hair down in polite society. With someone like Genevieve, it looked practically indecent. Will imagined what those waves would feel like against his bare chest, or tickling his thighs if she were to lower those luscious lips to his…

“Yes?” came softly from those lips now. “Go on.”

He tucked the hairpins in his coat pocket, so that they wouldn’t get lost. His fingers stroked at her temple, drawing back the silken curtain of hair that brushed against her face. He released it and watched, absorbed, as strands fell softly to grace her cheek again.

She didn’t move. With her he was free to take his time and explore. He leaned closer to lift the luxurious wealth of hair up and away from the nape of her neck, coaxing it to fall forward over one shoulder. His fingertips traced light circles at the hairline where short, lighter tendrils, as wispy as gossamer, curled.

His gaze slid to her face again. Her lips were half-parted, her eyes half-closed. As he touched her, her head inclined gracefully to one side. An almost involuntary movement, it seemed, to give him better access, inviting further attentions. God, she was lovely.

Without even thinking, Will bent to touch his lips against the sweet curve of her exposed neck, a feather-kiss close to the ear.

Genevieve started, her eyes darting to him.

“I assumed that was the next step?”

“Yes. You’re quite right,” she said. Her voice sounded softer now. “Kissing in—other places is an excellent precursor to kissing a woman on the mouth.”

Will sat back and looked at her, taking her face gently between his two hands.

Her gaze cast downward again.

He understood the intimacy in moving slowly, so deliberately, and gazing in one another’s eyes. She was his mistress, not his lover; she didn’t owe him any glimpses into her soul.

And yet he couldn’t help it. He wanted to look into her eyes again before they went any further.

“Look at me,” he commanded. Genevieve raised her wide green eyes to meet his.

She still had that same expression on her face, controlled and challenging. But as she blinked, he thought he saw a glimmer of something else—something more fragile, secretive.

He leaned over to touch his lips to her temple. One of his hands slipped to her shoulder and rested there as he bent to kiss her earlobe. Then he couldn’t resist capturing that bit of tender flesh gently between his teeth, flicking his tongue against it even as he released the lobe again. She moved, her thigh rubbing against his own.

His mouth went lower. For a long moment he pressed his lips to the place just under the hinge of her jaw. He felt her pulse there and was surprised to find it racing beneath her skin. He thought he felt a tremor in her breath.

His own heartbeat quickened in response. Was it possible for him to elicit such a reaction so quickly? Surely she’d grown accustomed to such things. Then again, perhaps passion was in her nature; sensuality dictated this path that she’d taken in life.

Will saw the creamy swell of her bosom, delineated so precisely against the bodice of glossy dark damask. To his delight, he noticed a faint smattering of freckles in the cleft between her breasts. She was no alabaster statue; she seemed as full of warmth and life as the sun-dappled countryside where she made her home. Did she have more freckles elsewhere, in places he couldn’t see?

He drew the backs of his fingers across the peachy softness there, the lightest of caresses, as he placed an almost reverent kiss at the hollow of her throat. He felt her whole being shiver in reply. Her head tilted back in abandon. For Will, awe mingled with greed, an intoxicating combination.

His mouth went to the side of her neck again. Now his kiss was open, rougher, the scrape of his teeth against the smooth flesh articulating his urgent but deep-rooted hunger. He coaxed his fingers just underneath the fabric of her bodice to sample more of the ripe curve there.

His arm clutched around her, his fist behind the back of her head, as though he feared she might be taken from him. He reached his hand lower, along the lovely contour of her breast as he trailed demanding kisses down her décolletage. She seemed to undulate against him, bringing herself enticingly closer to his mouth.

Thumbing the fabric out of the way, he exposed most of her breast. Freed from the constraints of the corset that urged it up and in, the flesh spilled outward. The perfect satiny weight seemed created to fill the cup of his hand, or perhaps his hand had been created to cherish it.

The tip of his thumb swirled around the pink nipple. He realized now, the nipple was rendered faithfully in the painting he’d seen at the art exhibition a few weeks ago. An irrational thought, but the idea of someone else seeing her nude irritated him, so he put the picture out of his mind.

She responded to his touch and the rosy tip grew tauter, as firm as a berry not quite ripe. He lowered his head to take a taste.

Then he felt her grip his wrist. “No, wait,” she said, pushing his hand away and covering herself up again.

Will pulled back as if burned, closing his eyes for a moment. By the time he lifted his head to look at her, he simmered with anger.

“Why did you stop me?”

Her eyes flashed, a temper to meet his own. “I believe you agreed that I would set the pace.”

“Bloody hell,” Will muttered. “What did I come here for?”

The color rose in her cheeks.

For all his frustration, he didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. It never occurred to him that he might upset such an experienced woman of the world.

Her face looked vulnerable and he regretted what he’d said.

Yes, she was his mistress, and it wasn’t so unreasonable to expect her to act like it. But all his life Will had been trained to be a perfect gentleman, and prided himself on the same.

“I am sorry,” he said at once. He wanted that stricken look off her face, wanted them both to be at their ease again. “You are in the right,” he added grudgingly. “I agreed to your way of doing things.”

“Perhaps you were mistaken to agree. If that’s the case, I understand.” The coolness returned to her voice. She moved as though to shift away from him, but the settee had little space to spare. “If you would like to find a more—conventional mistress, Mr. Creighton, I suggest you do so.”

“No.”

He didn’t know why that came out of his mouth. Maybe he did need a girl whom he could simply, well, fuck, as so many of the men in Crimea put it.

Will continued to consider that possibility after he took his wry leave and his carriage pulled away from her cottage. He simmered in a high state of agitation. Lust pumped like blood through his body, ignoring his stern attempts to quell it.

This was not what he bargained for. Not at all. He wanted a blind release from his frustrations, not a new frustration on top of them.

Yet he admitted that the experience, inconclusive at it turned out, wiped away the dullness and resentment into which he’d plunged for so long. It replaced that bitter mood with something different: almost unbearably maddening, but also fresh and exciting.

When he first imagined the sort of lessons a mistress like her might give, he imagined trying out myriad different positions: her straddling him on a chair, or her up against a wall, her legs wrapped around him...or her stretched over him, her pliant mouth surrounding his cock, while he tasted and teased her as well...

He desired to try everything with her.

And he wanted to hear her say the same endearments to him that she’d gotten him to say to her.

What? He frowned at this last thought. It didn’t matter what they said to each other.

He might, as she said, take a more conventional mistress. Surely he’d find an inventive one who could immediately gratify his desires. And Genevieve could take some other, more patient gentleman along her slower path to fulfillment.

Anger rose up in him at the idea of her with another man.

Ludicrous. She was a courtesan. She’d just serviced another man. Why should the thought of her with a new one cause him so much consternation?

But he couldn’t stand the idea of her entwined with some other lover, eventually exploring the very depths of the realm of sensual delights.

He didn’t even want her kissing someone else.

Damn. How had she managed, with that brief and paltry encounter, to cast such a snare on him?

She manipulated well.

Yet for all her rules and speeches, she didn’t give the impression of being cold or calculating. When his hand stroked her warm neck, he’d felt the wild flutter of her pulse. He remembered the quickness of her breath. Everything about her physical response suggested vulnerability.

Will let his head fall back against the carriage seat as they neared the shadowy outskirts of London.

Chapter Five

A few nights later, Will sat at the club waiting for Coventry to join him for dinner. Once the new cook arrived, he supposed he might dine at home. Then again, he might not. No club made a better dinner than Boodles; during the war, Will often thought longingly of their mutton chops, which he’d just ordered. Many young men dined at the place every night, including Coventry. Will spotted him now, coming in the door and handing his coat and hat to the servant there.

“Hullo, Will,” he said, pulling up a chair. “Sorry I’m late. This new girl from the workhouse spoiled three of my silk shirts.”

“Well, do not be too hard on her. She probably didn’t encounter many silk shirts in the workhouse.”

“No, I should think not.” Coventry adjusted his cuff-links. “Still, I hope you’re not planning to get us into a fight this evening. Denouncing the Queen and all that. I’d like to keep this shirt from getting ruined.”

“I will endeavor to restrain myself.” Will gestured to the waiter to bring another glass of wine for his friend.

“Are you giving up shaving?” Coventry asked. “Or did you just have a rough night?”

Will touched the few days’ growth on his chin. “I had a beard and moustache in Crimea. I missed it.” Will only shaved it off in the first place because of his meeting with Violet Tudbury. The fact that she preferred a clean-shaven look was no longer of interest to him.

“So, have you seen your family yet?”

“Yes. Father and Stuart are still in the country, but Mother and Katy are in Town.”

The waiter brought the second wine glass, and Coventry poured and took a sip. “I hope it was an amicable reunion.”

“Extremely, since it was just them. The only possible argument might be over how soon I can provide grandchildren.”

Coventry raised an eyebrow. “Is your mother in that much of a hurry to be a grandmother?”

“Good God, yes. She did not broach the subject yesterday, but she mentioned it in her letters often enough while I was away.”

“Indeed? Did she expect you to find a friendly peasant girl over there and set to work?”

“Ha. More along the lines of how she could not wait for me to get back home and start a family. I think she wants to make sure there will still be children around once Katy is grown.”

“Mmm. So are you looking for a bride?”

“Hardly. I’m taking a leaf out of Jack’s book, and taking a mistress.”

Since their first meeting, Will considered perhaps a dozen times to cut things off with Miss Bell. He wanted one thing, and he was not getting it.

But his thoughts always came back to the inevitable conclusion that he wanted to see her again. For so long, his life seemed as colorless, cold and gray as the gruel he’d been served aboard the transport ship. Every time he thought of his upcoming meeting with Genevieve, it seemed that his world had color and flavor again.

He must see her again.

Besides, he’d never been one to back down from a challenge.

“Well well,” Coventry said. “Who might this woman be?”

“You pointed her out the other night. She’d been with that artist fellow, until lately.”

“Micajah Visser’s redheaded friend? What, did they have a falling-out?”

“They did indeed. It was most convenient.”

Coventry inclined his head in a gesture of admiration. “You waste no time, my friend. What part of Town does she live in?”

“Just outside of it. She has a cottage in the country.”

“Charming! And she lives all by herself?”

“Yes, just her and one maid.”

“I always thought of you as more the marrying kind,” Coventry said. “But why not? As long as you’re careful.”

“Of course.”

The day after Genevieve had agreed to a liaison, Will purchased a tin of preventative sheaths, or “French safes” as they were labeled. They were the newer variety, made of Goodyear rubber. Several of his fellow soldiers in Crimea had contracted diseases from the prostitutes there, and the memory of that made Will all the more cautious.

He was not only cautious about disease. To father a child out of wedlock would have been shameful, and he couldn’t imagine how miserable such a situation might be for Miss Bell. He’d heard that women like her had their own ways of preventing pregnancies, but in such a serious matter, Will preferred to be certain.

Of course, given the frustrating nature of their first encounter, he hadn’t needed to concern himself with such things.

He hoped she wouldn’t string things out too long. Didn’t she understand that he hadn’t been with a woman for more than two years?

“Well, here is to new adventures.” Coventry raised the glass toward Will before drinking again. “And doubtless she will be an adventure. Some of the stories I’ve heard about that Pre-Raphaelite set...”

“What kind of stories?”

His friend raised a suggestive eyebrow. “Oh, well, who knows if they’re true. But in any case, I imagine she’ll be quite the original thinker.”

She certainly was original, though not in the way Coventry intended. “From our first conversation, I would say she is definitely that.”

Soon the mutton chops and all their accoutrements arrived, and Coventry filled Will in on the news of the people they knew. The friends were finishing their meal when a stout older man came to their table.

“It’s young Mr. Creighton, is it not?” he said, peering down and adjusting his spectacles on his nose. Will looked up to see Mr. Tudbury, Violet’s father.

Damn it! What if Violet chose to confide in him about the ridiculous secret engagement? Will disliked to discuss that in front of Coventry. Or discuss it at all, for that matter.

Mr. Tudbury was the last man he wanted to see.

Will stood up and shook the man’s hand. “I am delighted to see you, sir.” Coventry, who knew Mr. Tudbury as a fellow Club member, got to his feet and said good evening as well.

It would have been customary for the older man to say a few words and then go away. But he said nothing, and he did not go away. All Will thought of to say under the circumstances, much as he hated to say it, was, “Won’t you sit down and join us?”

“Thank you, I shall.” The gentleman lowered himself stiffly into the chair, making a harsh sound in the back of his throat as he settled. He fumbled in the pockets of his coat and produced a cigar. “Can I interest either of you fellows in a smoke?”

They declined. “I think I will order us some port, though,” Coventry added politely. “You will want some, won’t you, Mr. Tudbury?”

“Yes, excellent.” The older man lit the cigar, but before he took a puff, he succumbed to a violent bout of coughing and hacking. Will knew he was prone to this.

“Are you all right, sir?” Coventry asked, his expression concerned.

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Tudbury, now red-faced, managed to say. He cleared his throat again and swallowed in a gulp. Then he sucked on the cigar.

“It’s just an affliction I inherited from my father, the coughing that is,” he explained after he exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke. “Smoking’s the only thing that helps it, you know.” He turned to Will and clapped him on the shoulder. “So, how does it feel to be back?”

“Excellent, sir.”

“You seem so much older than I remember! But then, it has been a long time since you were in knee-breeches.” He gave an amused wheeze. “I recall when you were climbing my trees, and you got in trouble for throwing cherries at my Violet. Do you remember that, Willy?”

“Vividly,” Will said. His father had taken him home and horsewhipped him.

“I understand you paid my daughter and her new husband a visit the other day. That was very kind of you.”

Will hesitated. Then he noticed that Coventry watched him as if he sensed Will was reluctant to discuss it.

“Yes,” he said to the lady’s father. “My congratulations on your daughter’s marriage. I’m sure she’ll be very happy.”

“I suppose she might,” Mr. Tudbury muttered. He took off his spectacles and cleaned them with one of the cloth napkins. Will saw for the first time that his eyes were red—either from too much drink or too little sleep, or possibly both.

Coventry smiled wryly. “You sound unconvinced, sir.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Tudbury put his spectacles on again. “Oh, well, he’s not all bad.”

Will wasn’t sorry to hear this less-than-ringing endorsement of Violet’s husband. Still, he wondered why Mr. Tudbury discussed it with him.

“I should not be saying this, maybe, Will, but my wife and I always hoped—” He shook his head and took a swig of port. “Ah, never mind, it’s foolish.”

“No, what is it?” Coventry encouraged him.

“Well, I think we always hoped that Will might marry Violet, to be honest. He’s just the kind of young man I would like to have for a son-in-law, and I don’t mind saying it. Intelligent, strong, sensible...and now a war hero, as well! Fine moral character...would you not say so, Mr. Moore?”

“Oh, yes,” Coventry said, as if he’d not just heard all about Will’s wanton new mistress. “But not so moral as to be dull, mind you.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it! ‘Not so moral as to be dull...’ that’s very well put, Mr. Moore. That is exactly what I mean.”

Now it was clear to Will that Mr. Tudbury was drunk. In a lifetime of knowing his father’s friend, he’d never seen the man have more than a glass or two.

“Yes, Will was always a fine young man...once he outgrew throwing cherries, that is.” The man chuckled and coughed. “I do have my regrets, regarding this fellow with Vy. I know I should not say it, but you gentlemen can keep a confidence, can’t you?”

“Of course,” Coventry said. “We are all friends here.”

“Well, her new husband is not the brightest gas lamp on the square, if you take my meaning. But he is rich, so that’s some consolation. He’s rich beyond belief, to tell the truth.”

“That is certainly a virtue in his favor,” Coventry commented.

“In my daughters’ favor, more like...both of my daughters, I mean. We scarcely settled anything on Violet. Didn’t need to, this fellow didn’t care. So now Daisy will have forty thousand a year, when she marries.”

Good God. Will’s mind went back to his idle thoughts, a few days earlier, of marrying Daisy or some proper girl just like her. Coventry looked surprised, probably both at the sum Mr. Tudbury named, and also at the fact that he’d named it.

“Isn’t she coming out this Season?” Will asked her father. “The poor girl will be hounded to death.”

“Indeed. She already has a couple of enterprising admirers, to tell the truth.”

Will imagined young men paying visits, ostensibly to Mr. and Mrs. Tudbury, in hopes of getting a word or two with the daughter.

“But enough of that,” Mr. Tudbury said. “I did not come over to discuss the likes of them.” He smashed out the last of his cigar. “Willy, Edith and I are wondering when you might like to come to dinner. This Saturday, perhaps? Very informal, don’t you know. Violet and her husband will be entertaining on their own, in Belgrave Square, but Daisy will be there.”

Will remembered again that he might have inadvertently hurt the younger Miss Tudbury’s feelings, the day he called. If he came to dinner, he could make it clear to the girl that he hadn’t meant any offense. Even accepting the invitation would make that plain.

“I should be delighted.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Tudbury rasped, and then succumbed to another convulsion of coughing.

“So shall you be taking up residence in Somerset, after the Season is over?”

“Yes. I may return to London in the autumn, however. To King’s College.”

“Whatever for? You went to Oxford. Surely that is enough learning for any man.”

Will cleared his throat. “I am considering studying to be a physician.”

Mr. Tudbury snorted. “A physician? Why should you want to do such a thing?”

“In the army, I learned they can be very useful.”

Coventry cast a quick glance at Will’s hand.

Mr. Tudbury frowned. “Yes, I suppose I can understand that. And no doubt you shall succeed at whatever you choose to do.”

“Thank you.”

Tudbury rose and took his leave.

“I was afraid he was going to cough up a bit of lung,” Coventry murmured as he watched Mr. Tudbury retreat. He turned back to Will. “A doctor? What does your family say?”

“We will see,” Will said. “They may not like the thought of a Creighton lowering himself to such an occupation.”

Coventry chuckled. “It didn’t scare away Mr. Tudbury.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come now. The way he was courting you, I half expected him to present you with a bouquet of roses.” Coventry leaned back in his chair. “What do you think of the daughter? I have met the older one, of course, but I don’t know that I’ve seen the younger.”

“I don’t know her very well.” Will shrugged. “She must be more than ten years younger than me.” He didn’t suppose she could be older than eighteen. “But she is pretty enough. And she always seemed sweet.”