Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (52 page)

‘Once, at his inauguration as Regent at Carlton House three years ago. It was not a comfortable experience.'

‘Well then, you saw a different man from the way he was in his youth. I met him first when I was a lad, and he could not have been kinder or more courteous to me, when he had far more important things to do. When he heard I was interested, he showed me his paintings and porcelain and told me how to recognise the makers, and I can tell you there's little wrong with his taste in fine things. If he dresses rather flamboyantly, that's his nature. He won't pretend to be what he isn't. You either like him, or you don't.'

‘You said he was a fine horseman, too.'

‘He is. One of the best and most knowledgeable. And before you tell me horses cost a fortune, I agree, they do. He wants only the best, but I can't dislike a man for that. So do I.'

‘Which is why, I suppose, you profess to pursue what you want and make it yours. A fine sentiment, my lord, but quite unrealistic, apart from causing unnecessary heartache.'

‘I'm glad you remembered my words. Keep them in mind.'

‘I will. Your loyalty to his Highness is commendable, but I have never thought that a penchant for the finer things of life gives one the licence to ignore one's duty as a husband and father. Or as a future king, either.'

It was obvious to them both that, as the words slipped out, warmed on good food and wine, she had her own father in mind as well as the Prince Regent. Verne's silence allowed her judgement to go unchallenged while her eyes flickered away from his and she made a play of pulling her shawl more closely around her shoulders to hide the peachy skin from his sight. The conversation had swung round to herself, the very thing she had wished to avoid. Perhaps she ought not to have mentioned his royal employer when she had so recently discovered material that could damage him beyond repair.

‘I take it, then, my lady, that you would derive some satisfaction from seeing erring husbands dealt with harshly. Do you have anything particular in mind?'

Deep waters. Too deep to wade into at this time of night. Any further and she would have verified what he already suspected. ‘It was
your
work I meant to ask about, my lord, not the Prince Regent's qualities, or lack of them.'

Accepting her retreat with a nod of his head and what Annemarie thought was a barely disguised grin of satisfaction, he passed her a plate of fruit tartlets. ‘Will you try one?' he said. ‘I can recommend them.'

‘Thank you. Your approval of fruit tarts must be reliable, at least.'

Concentrating on the first sweet mouthful, she did not see his reaction, though she heard the deep laughter at her riposte, and the rest of the meal was conducted in an atmosphere of amicable stalemate.

* * *

Some time before the table was cleared and glasses of wine taken back to their fireside chairs, Annemarie felt herself succumbing to the appeal of Verne's company. If only their motives had not diverged so acutely. He had the kind of intelligence she admired, but what would he be making of
her
limited knowledge and experience? His manners, apart from one aberration, were faultless, but how could one overlook the immoral behaviour that epitomised his old regiment, The Prince of Wales's Own? Was he the exception he claimed to be? He was loyal, but was his loyalty misplaced? Or did it show that he preferred to see strengths rather than weaknesses, even when these were serious? His personal magnetism went without saying, but what was his record with women? To her bewilderment, he had tried his charm on her, with some success. Obviously, he was well practised and sure of himself, sure of getting what he wanted and of walking away afterwards without a backward glance, but how she would love to call his bluff, for what had been that question on dealing harshly with erring husbands if not about what she intended to do with the letters? He was probing, of course, and she could keep him guessing even after the return of the letters to Lady Hamilton.

Seated once again in the comfortable fireside chair, waves of exhaustion threatened to extinguish the hostility hovering over their conversation, none of which was lost upon her host when words with more than two syllables began to suffer noticeably and stifled yawns kept her black-lashed eyelids weighed down with tiredness.

In different circumstances, he would never have taken advantage of a woman's weakness. But Verne had concluded some time ago that this situation called for something altogether more dramatic, something that would make an impression on her other than the rescue, the accommodation, the food, wine and company, something that would shake the foundations of the contempt for men upon which she was building her opinions. She might well be fighting fatigue, but he was a reasonably good judge of women and, although her particular problems were new to him, he knew that it would not be her memory that would suffer in the morning, but her conscience, and therefore her attitude towards himself. That had to change, for he had not been deceived by her attempts at politeness in between the embittered remarks, nor did he believe she was as unaffected by him as she pretended to be. There was an interest there that she would like to have kept hidden, which Mrs Cardew herself had noticed, as he had. It was time for her to be stirred out of her complications.

‘How long do you intend to stay in London?' he asked.

Blinking, she summoned back the wariness with an effort. Was it something she should be telling him? ‘Not long,' she said, blearily. ‘I have to find someone first.' She did not notice his sudden alertness, nor her own indiscretion.

‘Lady Benistone?' he ventured.

A sad frown clouded her eyes as she tried to focus on him, nodding her head as if he'd uncovered a secret thought. ‘What do
you
know about Lady Benistone?' she asked. ‘You were out of the country.'

Smoothly, he replied. ‘Yes, and now I'm back.'

‘It's time I was going.' With astonishing speed, she was out of the chair and swivelling towards the door with one foot treading upon the long shawl that her other foot was holding down. Her legs, usually so agile, refused to compensate.

He caught her as she fell, knocking over the small table and sending the empty glass bouncing across the floor, holding her hard against him until she could untangle her feet. But although she clung to him for support, she was tired and needled by his mention of a painful subject, by her feet being stuck in folds of cashmere and by trying to hold back the guilty stirrings of a physical attraction she had sworn never again to release. Her usual composure deserted her along with the last remains of her energy as she tried to twist herself out of his restraint, pushing instead of clinging. Too tired even to plead for release, she felt the predictable tightening of his arms and the pressure of his hard thighs and, without knowing quite how it happened, the warm searching invasion of his mouth over hers, silencing even the thoughts that waited there.

Warnings evaporated. Resistance became compliance and, with her rock-solid objections wavering in the deepest corners of her mind she was carried helplessly on a wave of bliss that her body craved, but had never experienced. No kiss she had known or imagined compared to those few moments when nothing was required of her except to bathe in his exciting closeness and to let him show her what he had meant by ‘a man's hand'. A man's kiss, not an old man's or a boy's. Exhausted as she was, untutored and still nagged by latent hostility, she could tell the difference.

He had known that, for the first few moments at least, she would lack the energy and motivation to protest, but he could not have predicted her unexpected eagerness that went way beyond his hopes. Nor had he quite foreseen how his first taste of her lips threatened to drive from his usually cool head any thought of restraint or regard for her inexperience. A widow she might be, but of lovemaking she probably knew little beyond what two short disastrous encounters had taught her. Yet in his arms she was softened by tiredness and pent-up desire that neither of them had managed to hide. What hot-blooded male would resist the temptation to prolong the experience for the sake of tomorrow's recriminations?

He felt the sinuous bending of her body and the reach of one hand towards his ear, effectively permitting him to drink deeply at the lips he had watched all evening, even while remaining aware of how, at any moment, she might take flight as she had almost done moments before. Carefully, expertly, his mouth moved over the silken skin of her throat, his hand deep in her hair to hold her entranced and yielding to the butterfly touch that travelled erratically so that she could not anticipate its course towards the skimpy bodice, shoulder and neck, then to the beautiful rising mounds of her breasts.

She gasped and held his jaw to stop the journey, telling him by her signal that here lurked a spectre dark enough to break the spell. He closed her startled eyes with his whispers and soft kisses. ‘Hush, my beauty. Stand still.' Lapping at her lips one last time, he drew away just far enough to keep her there, half-expecting an explosion of outrage, once her awareness had returned to berate her conscience.

But there was no explosion, only breathless words of reproach, clearly linking his desires to more material matters. ‘This is not the way, my lord,' she said. ‘There is really...no need...'

‘No need to what?'

‘To go to these lengths to get what you want. Following me to London. Dining with me. Now...this. I am not to be bought...this way.'

‘You think that I arranged for the rain and a landslide? You credit me with more influence than I deserve, my lady. This was not planned any more than your stumble against me was, but if I take advantage of the situation, who would blame me?'

‘I would. Most people would. It is not the conduct of a gentleman towards a lady, nor is it the way to get at the bureau.'

‘To hell with the bureau,' he said, brusquely. ‘That's the last thing on my mind while I'm standing here with you in my arms, believe me.'

His plain speaking made her blush and she looked away angrily. ‘I wish I could believe that,' she whispered.

‘Do you? You still think this is all about persuasion? You think I have no more regard for your intelligence than to think you'd fall for that kind of low trick? That I would use coercion of this kind to change your mind about a piece of
furniture
? Saints alive, woman! What kind of man do you take me for, a rogue, like Mytchett?'

‘Leave him out of it, if you please.'

‘Gladly. But answer my question.'

‘I cannot!' she cried, squirming against him. ‘All I know is that you have your orders and that's why you're here, isn't it? How should I know what kind of a man you are, my lord? You must have heard how skilfully I form opinions in
that
direction.'

‘Yes, I have. Stop struggling and listen to me.'

‘Let me go!'

‘No. Listen. This is not what you believe.'

‘You will never convince me of that, my lord. If I did not own something you'd been told to get hold of at any cost, you would show no more interest in Lord Benistone's scandalous daughter than in any other widow. I suggest you return to one of your mistresses in London...or wherever...and let her take your mind off things. I'm not such a hen-brain that I can't see when I am being used. I've learned a thing or two in one year.'

‘Wrong on two counts,' he said, keeping her pressed against the wall, though now he held her face in one warm hand while his thumb stroked softly across her chin and lips, his other hand clasping her wrist against his shoulder. ‘Shall I tell you?'

‘No.'

‘One is that, having discovered the existence last weekend of Lord Benistone's scandalous daughter, owning her has become more important to me than anything she owns. When I said that I pursue what I want and make it mine, you knew then that I meant you. Didn't you?'

‘No.'

He smiled, moving the soft pad of his thumb again. ‘Little liar. That kiss, by the way, was not meant to make you angry, but to show you that I was serious. I want
you
, Lady Annemarie Golding.'

‘That's
ridiculous
!' she said.. ‘Utterly—'

The thumb pressed softly, stopping the protest. ‘On the second count, I don't have a mistress in London or anywhere else and, even if I did, she would not manage to take my mind off
things
, as you call them. My mind has been on you since we met, my scandalous, damaged, reclusive beauty, and I intend to take you back into society and show you what you've been missing.'

‘I
know
what I've been missing,' she retorted.

‘No, you don't.' The way he said it, looking deeply into her eyes with such intensity, left her in no doubt of what he meant.

‘Lord Verne, just because my parents had an unorthodox relationship before their marriage, you should not assume that they would approve of their daughters doing the same. Besides, I want no more to do with men. I have decided to take full control of my life. Alone. You think I need help. Well, I don't. I can manage.'

‘As you did today, you mean?'

‘I would have managed, one way or another.'

‘So was it better to do it my way? Or yours?'

‘Safer, and possibly more comfortable,' she said, ignoring the ambiguity.

‘Safer,' he echoed, softly. ‘So you're going to play safe for the rest of your life, my lady, and let a bad experience colour your views of mankind in general. A woman of your calibre should not be hiding herself away from the world, in case—'

‘I see! So I'm a coward! That's what you're saying? Let
go
of me!'

Having been quite prepared for her fury at his accusation of faint-heartedness, his hard body and arms closed like a vice around her, tilting her head back against his deep-blue coat for another kiss that gave her a glimpse of what she
had
been missing, whether she would admit it or not. From beneath his searching lips, a mewing cry emerged as she felt his hand pass down her body from breast to thigh, lingering over each undulation with a gentle pressure that spanned her like an octave before the return journey. Yet this most intimate and indecent caress held her spellbound with a confusion of guilty pleasures. While she knew that any well-brought-up woman would have resisted it to her utmost, she let it happen, abandoning her lips to his in a sweet distraction of senses. Thoughts of outrage scattered in all directions, leaving nothing except the deep rapture of desire, of being made to feel rare and precious, not for a man's pleasure alone, which had always sullied her previous experiences. She felt herself become still again under his touch, waiting for the next caress, for the direction of his kisses, for the intoxicating male scent of him, the taste of his skin and the softness of his hair on her fingertips, his support of her wilting body.