Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (61 page)

He sat up to observe the progress of his hands smoothing over the slender thighs and shapely calves, deriving as much pleasure from the exploration as she was. ‘I knew it,' he said. ‘I just
knew
it.'

‘Knew what?'

‘That under those flimsy gowns there'd be two glorious legs as long as my bed. I cannot believe he never bothered to look. You are a vision, woman.'

Without shoes or stockings, she felt liberated and almost wanton, and although he had alluded to the husband he wanted her to forget, his informal and rather irreverent description of her legs and his curiosity regarding them released the remaining tensions of the day into a shy smile. ‘And I'll wager you've never even noticed them, have you?' he said, recalling the nonchalant grace of her movements and the unstudied elegance of her dress.

‘Only to put stockings on,' she admitted, ‘and to keep me upright.'

‘Huh!' Lingering, as if she had been a mare he was examining before deciding to buy, he ran one hand down her leg from crotch to toes. Then he stood and began to unbutton his coat as a half-smile played about his mouth.

Annemarie watched the businesslike disrobing with a greater enjoyment than she might have expected to, having also wondered what lay beneath the perfectly fitting coat and the tight breeches. From three sides, triangles of light played upon his torso as each part was revealed to her interested gaze, the rippling muscles of his back as the white shirt fell away, the smooth skin still faintly tanned by Spanish sun, the rounded bulge of shoulders and the powerful swell of his chest, the tapering waist and hips more beautiful than anything she had imagined, in her ignorance. Usually hidden by the tailcoat, his buttocks were now an area of particular fascination, so different from a woman's, so much neater than the wide flabbiness whose weight she had once dreaded. As he turned towards her, those same memories could not help but compare this strong virile creature with past nightmares of unseen invasion and the assault upon her senses.

Before she could continue her study of him, he was beside her on the bed, drawing her into his arms as she raised herself to meet him. Willingly. Eagerly. Fiercely, their mouths met as if even the shortest preliminaries were too long. Verne was exultant. For one who had not wanted to see, she had responded in every way as he'd hoped, shedding the inhibitions that had plagued her. Although he expected to encounter others, her softening body and questing hands told him that her curiosity would overcome any latent fears, as indeed it was already doing.

Over the undulations of his shoulders and back, her fingertips and palms made expeditions which, as well as adding to her limited knowledge, heightened the spellbinding sensation of his lips upon hers that nudged, nibbled and consumed, carrying her closer than ever to the core of him. The sense of no turning back swamped her, making her oblivious to the unbuttoning, untying, loosening and unwrapping that went on behind her, or the slipping of soft fabric from her shoulders and hips, the release of arms and breasts. As they entered a new phase of intimacy, Annemarie became half-aware that her naked body was being warmed by his skin, seductively, sending small shivers of delight along each surface as they moved in each other's arms, their mouths still wordless and hungry.

Sealed within his embrace, she surrendered herself to the new experience of being held against his chest, then of his hand cupping the luscious fullness of her breast, fondling it, passing his palm provocatively across the sensitive tip to alert her to a sudden exquisite tingle that rushed down to her secret parts, taking her completely by surprise. With a gasp and a mewing cry, she eased her mouth free of his with a hand on his chin.

Verne waited, saying nothing, understanding that this could well be in memory of some earlier rough treatment. Tenderly, he resumed the caress, adding, as she watched, another kind of delight that he knew would not have been part of her previous experience, showering the delicate skin with moist kisses that eventually took the aching nipple into his mouth. Teasing with tongue and lips, he felt the sharp impression of Annemarie's fingernails on his back and heard her staggering breath, and knew that her fears were being replaced by ecstasy.

Constantly intrigued by this amazing woman, Verne soon realised that this occasion was going to be no exception. He had promised to take their loving slowly in response to her brutish husband's haste, but now he began to sense that it was not so much a lengthy preparation she required, but a lover who treated her with consideration and skill, with mastery as well as affection. He had brought a smile to her lips, too, which he was willing to wager Sir Richard had never done. He had overcome some of her objections and fears, and already she had attained a level of desire he'd not expected for quite some time, though her previous behaviour ought perhaps to have prepared him. Wavering between certainty and doubt, the lady was not always easy to predict.

He did not regret the leisurely pace, his self-control being what it was, for she joined him in every caress with versions of her own, enjoying his nakedness as he did hers, unashamedly seeking sensations through hands, lips, and the soles of her feet. At the same time she allowed him free access to the most hidden parts of her self, showing by her trembling stillness that her mind and body had, for those moments of bliss, parted company. For Verne, it came as a revelation to him which he could not have anticipated, having half-expected his wooing to be interrupted, now and then, by a restraining hand and the need for some reassurances, at least.

But none were necessary. His courteous unhurried lovemaking, which at first had been encouraged with sighs of pleasure, was soon goaded into something more energetic by her grasping fingers in his hair and a series of almost savage kisses that were anything but maidenly. He needed no other urging, nor did there seem to be any need, in view of her wildness, for him to enquire if she was ready. With a hand beneath her back, he pulled her under him and watched the dark gemstone eyes lock with his, reminding him that here he must proceed with care past the hurts that could not so quickly be forgotten. Her eyes remained on his as he took her that first time, searching for any indication of selfishness on his part which might imply that
her
enjoyment was not his first concern.

There was no such sign. Skilfully and with tenderness, he accepted her silent invitation by slipping effortlessly into her warmth accompanied by the fluttering of eyelids and a soundless gasp that might, he thought, have been a combination of relief and pleasure. For her reassurance as well as his own, he watched her face for the smallest sign of discomfort but saw, with a growing sense of elation, how her sighs became moans, how her glossy hair frayed across her face as she tossed and how she continued to caress him intimately in a way, he thought, she had probably not been used to doing.

Incomprehensible murmurs escaped her, sounds of delight mingled with deeper throaty tones as the flames of her passion soon roared out of control, and here his intention to delay fell apart, for she was ahead of him, urging him with her body to satisfy some fast-growing need. Her heavy eyelids drooped over the former wariness, and now as he mastered her demands with an increased energy he saw once again the magnificent angry woman who had chosen to cross swords with him on sight. This was what he had dreamed of since that first encounter, to see her beneath him writhing in ecstasy and calling softly to him to take her without delay to a place he could swear she'd never been before. If she forgot everything else that had ever happened to her, she would remember this.

Recalling those moments, as she did many times later, Annemarie was never able to compare the experience with anything life had offered so far: to try a comparison with what Sir Richard had offered was absurd. Exactly why her late husband had always redoubled his efforts at the conclusion of his performance, mercifully not a protracted one, had never made much sense to her. Now she understood. She remembered the incredible sensation of being overcome by wave after wave of rapture, of being swept along by her lover's fierce encouragement that shook her with its force, tumbling them both at the same time into a whirling oblivion, their cries mingling in the distance. She remembered his power and exciting energy which, rather than leaving her bruised and flattened, left her satiated, melting, trembling with a unique kind of exhilaration. She remembered his breathless words, too, while she was still wondering what had happened, yet knowing instinctively why it had not happened before.

His face was buried in the silky black tangle covering her neck, the pillow being somewhere on the floor. ‘I think,' he said, ‘you are the most desirable and sensational woman I've ever met. You're in a class of your own, my beauty. I think I shall keep you in a cage.'

‘No,' she whispered, though her lips smiled the word. ‘That would not suit. I have just been set free, my lord.'

He turned his head towards her, dark locks of hair falling over his forehead. Annemarie's heart melted at the sight of him, at the triumph in his eyes, at the heat that flowed over her from his possessive body. Could she knowingly hurt him after this, when he'd taken her to such heights? Had he not just bound her to him and caged her, if not in his heart, then at least in his command? Was she truly freed now, or would she crave more and more of him?

‘Set free, are you?' he said, resting on one elbow to look down at her. ‘Just now, you mean?'

He would know, she thought, how the balance of her life had now tipped and how she would need to review the quality of her new independence as a woman and as his mistress with well-laid plans. What he would not know was that, after this, she might need him more than she'd planned and more than he would need her, despite the compliments. And then who would need caging? Her? Or him? ‘Yes,' she said. ‘Just now. But have no fear, my lord. I have no thoughts of another escape at the present.' Softly as a feather she touched his cheek, brushing her fingertips over the strong thick hair that shielded his ears, drawing his head towards her to place a lingering seal upon her words.

She was relieved to discover that Verne did not intend to leave the decision to her. Lifting his head, he moved a strand of her hair from his chin. ‘May I remind you, oh mistress mine,' he said, ‘that you were not allowed to escape on previous occasions nor will you be allowed to in the future. Thank you for your acceptance, however. That simplifies matters for me.'

‘Like not having to build a cage?' she said, facetiously, sensing a deepness she preferred not to fathom.

Rather than answer with words, Verne kissed her again, suspecting that she already knew the cage was built and that she had just entered it.

Chapter Seven

T
he talk about cages, Annemarie told herself, was not something to be taken too seriously. Men said that kind of thing and Verne had probably expressed the same sentiment to other women after making love. He would have a stock of such compliments, surely, a man of his obvious experience. Even so, he appeared to be more than satisfied with her limited repertoire, for he had made love to her again almost immediately before joining her in sleep for an hour, after which they had dressed in a state of dreaminess with hardly a word between them, walking shamelessly hand in hand across the Steyne to take tea in her cosy rooms on the corner of South Parade.

The earlier visit to the house by Samson, Verne's valet, had not been solely for his master's comfort. As well as delivering his evening dress and travelling valise, he had another more personal mission concerning the lady's maid Evie, knowing that unless he made his peace with her, he was going to be on the wrong side of the door indefinitely. So with this in mind he made himself as agreeable to Mrs Ash as he knew how, on the basis that she might sway the young lady's opinion in his favour.

Hoping to satisfy her own curiosity about the cause of the conflict, Mrs Ash lost no time in putting forwards the view that she thought the young man quite charming and what was there about him not to like? She put it to Evie within minutes of the young man's leaving. Had something happened? she wanted to know.

‘Too forward, that's all,' said Evie, recalling the two incidents at Reigate, one of which was only hours old.

As soon as he'd seen the cushion-shaped brown-paper parcel under Evie's arm, he'd known the time had come for an explanation. Though he'd dodged behind a few of the Swan's guests to escape, Evie was on the warpath with no intention of letting him avoid her anger. ‘You didn't mind who you landed in trouble, did you? Thief! And you making up to me all friendly, like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. Well...
that
's for your trouble!' The smack across his face almost knocked him into the banister and would have been bad enough by itself had not several men made matters worse by turning to watch.

‘Oi!' he said. ‘Steady on, miss. I can explain...honest,'

‘Honest my foot!' Evie had snapped. ‘
That
you're not!'

Samson held his cheek to cool the sting. ‘Give me a chance, then. Look, come away from this gawping crowd and I'll tell you.'

‘You can start by telling me what was in that portmanteau that was valuable enough for you to help yourself to, you thieving—'

‘Shh! Cut it out, Miss Evie.' The accusation hurt. He'd only obeyed orders. ‘I was told it had valuables in, that's all. And I was curious. So while you were downstairs I took a peep inside.'

‘And?'

‘Nothing much. Only bundles of letters addressed to Lady Something; I couldn't read the writing in that light. Well, I thought they might be of interest to Lord Verne, so I took them out and put the cushion there instead.'

‘Why on
earth
would Lord Verne be interested in bundles of letters?'

‘Well, I dunno. I thought perhaps they might have been from Lady Golding's husband...you know...Sir Richard...'

‘I
know
that!'

‘To his mistress, or somebody.'

‘His
what
? What mistress?'

‘Oh, come off it, Miss Evie. I expect everybody knew.'

‘I'm Miss Ballard to you, and no, everybody
didn't
know, Mr Samson. I didn't, for one thing, and nor did Lady Golding. And don't you go putting it about, or I'll...'

‘Yes, right. No need to fly up again. Maybe I'm wrong, then.'

‘You were certainly wrong to take what doesn't belong to you. So you passed these letters on to Lord Verne, did you? And what has
he
done with them?'

‘No idea, Miss Ballard. He may have burnt them for all I know.' That much was true. All he'd done was to get whatever was in the portmanteau, as instructed, put something in its place and then relock it. His thieving days were over and it was rare for him to meet a victim and have to explain.

‘Then you can get rid of
that
!' Evie had said, shoving the parcel at him. ‘And if the room is locked, you'll know how to get into it, won't you?'

After that encounter, Samson's avoidance tactics had been more successful, but his words had lingered uncomfortably in Evie's mind like a heavy weight, reinforcing a suspicion she'd held for years about Sir Richard's behaviour.
Had
he kept a mistress? Sent her letters? Reclaimed them before his death? Bought them back to avoid blackmail?

‘Mrs Ash,' she said, hanging the last of Annemarie's gowns on the wardrobe rail. ‘Did...er...did Sir Richard keep a mistress?'

A denial would have burst out immediately: the hesitation provided the dreaded confirmation. Mrs Ash turned to the view overlooking the Steyne, sighing before she answered. ‘He did,' she said. ‘I thought you knew.'

‘No,' said Evie. She sat on the edge of the white silk-covered bed, staring beyond the housekeeper at the wheeling seagulls. ‘No, I didn't. Lady Golding doesn't know, either. Does she?'

‘We kept it to ourselves,' said Mrs Ash. ‘The poor lady had no need to know. She had enough to put up with, without that. And then when all that business blew up after he'd gone, it seemed best to let it die a natural death. It's just a bit uncomfortable that the woman should have been living here in Brighton, where Lady Golding loves to be.'

‘Here? Oh, no!'

‘He used to come down here without her for a few nights, telling us he'd be at Raggett's Club when Mr Ash knew full well he wasn't. I suppose Lady Golding thought he'd be on duty at the barracks. He never gave anyone credit for being able to see what he was up to. Mr Ash knows most of what goes on in Brighton. It was one of those terraced houses on Arlington Street where he went. A private house, not a brothel. I don't know any more than that. It's over and done with. You'll not tell her, will you?'

‘No, I certainly won't, Mrs Ash.'

‘You suspected something, though. Why did you ask?'

‘Oh, I'd just like her to be married again instead of a man's mistress.'

‘Is that what Lady Golding is? Lord Verne's mistress?'

‘Yes, that's what we have to get used to, Mrs Ash, for the time being.'

‘Mind you, Lord Verne's got a bit more going for him than... Oh well, I mustn't say too much on that score, must I? I expect she knows what she's doing.'

Evie stood up, smoothing the dent made on the bed. ‘Mmm,' she said. ‘I hope she does.' She closed the wardrobe door gently. Samson's assumption that the letters could have been to Sir Richard's mistress was, of course, just that. An assumption. He could have been quite mistaken but, if that's what they were, then Lady Golding would have experienced yet another blow to her pride at a time when she was at her lowest ebb. Equally puzzling was the timing. Where had the letters been since Sir Richard's death? Here at Brighton? Evie thought she knew every nook and cranny of her mistress's rooms, drawers and cupboards. The idea of Lord Verne possessing incriminating material that was none of his business did not sit easily with her when he had in all other respects shown himself to be the embodiment of respectability, quite unlike the previous earwig who had laid siege to her mistress's heart. Whatever the letters were, incriminating or not, Lord Verne had no right to them and now both she herself and Mrs Cardew were involved in deceiving Lady Golding into believing they were safely disposed of. If only she could be more sure of her ground.

* * *

Later that day, while Lady Golding and Lord Verne were exploring the delights of the Royal Pavilion, Evie took a stroll in the sunshine along Marine Parade. Discreet enquiries at Donaldson's Library had assured her that Arlington Street was somewhere along here, thus setting a scene of respectability which would surely help her enquiries. It had been over two years since Sir Richard's death in the January of 1812, time enough for the occupants to have changed, but when Evie had scanned the list of subscribers to the library and discovered the familiar name of Mytchett, she felt that her prying into Lady Golding's affairs was excused. Here was a connection she had not expected. A relative of Sir Lionel Mytchett's? The late Sir Richard Golding's mistress?

Small signs of hard times were immediately apparent: an unswept step, flaking paint on the door, unpolished brass knocker and door handle. A curtain twitched at one side as Evie waited, not expecting her rat-a-tat to be answered with any promptness. When the door opened at last after the third knock, the cautious approach was close to what Evie had predicted, a weary face framed by untidy dark ringlets under a lace cap and a greeting that had obviously been prepared for a creditor rather than a friend. ‘Yes? If you're from Scott and Wildings, you can tell them I'll pay on Friday.' The door began to close.

Evie put out a hand to stop it. ‘No...er, no! I'm not from Scott and Wildings. This is a private visit. Personal. To see Miss...er...
Mrs
Mytchett?' Having caught sight of another face on the level of the lady's knee, most of it obscured by a sticky fist, she revised her choice of titles. ‘Is this where she lives?'

‘Who wants to know?'

Deception was never Evie's strong point, nor did she think to achieve anything extra by pretending to be someone she was not. ‘Don't be alarmed,' she said. ‘My name is Miss Ballard, lady's maid to Lady Golding. Might I have a few words with Mrs Mytchett? In private?'

Two deep-brown eyes scanned her from bonnet to shoes and back again while the wisdom and foolishness of the meeting was debated and the child turned its face into the mother's faded skirts. To be sure, Evie couldn't tell whether the little moppet was a son or a daughter when the wild halo of fair curls could have belonged to either. The woman's expression gave little away as she opened the door with reluctance, as if there was something wedging it closed. ‘I wondered. Mind out the way, Richie,' she muttered, hauling the child back by one shoulder.

‘Wondered?' said Evie, edging her way through the gap.

‘Yes. How long it would be before something like this happened. It's
him
you want to be talking to, not me, Miss Ballard.'

‘You
are
Mrs Mytchett?'

‘I am.'

The light dimmed noticeably as the door was closed and Evie felt the shabby claustrophobic narrowness press inwards as the child whined to be picked up, still sucking its fist. The mother complied, grunting with the effort, then leading her guest into a room that might once have been pretty, but was now threadbare, faded and sadly in need of renovation. Glancing at Mrs Mytchett's back, Evie judged that she was probably still in her late twenties, shapely but ill served by a muslin day-dress from which a section of frill had come adrift. There was no sign of a maid, but a high pile of folded cotton garments lay upon the small side-table next to a sewing-box.

Evie settled herself in a battered old chair, noticing Mrs Mytchett's regular features and the unfortunate down-turn about her mouth. Blotchy skin and reddened eyelids had robbed her of any youthful bloom there must once have been, but Evie could well imagine that, before the child, Mrs Mytchett would easily have attracted any man. ‘I beg your pardon for the intrusion,' she said. ‘Perhaps I ought to say that Lady Golding did not send me here to quiz you. I came on my own account. She doesn't know about my visit and I don't intend to tell her, either, because—'

‘Because she didn't know her husband had a mistress? Is that it?' Mrs Mytchett said, settling the child on her knee. ‘Well, I knew it'd only be a matter of time before she did. There are not many secrets to be kept in a place the size of Brighton, Miss Ballard.'

‘No, I suppose not. But when you said just now that I ought to be talking to “him”, did you mean your husband? And ought I to be addressing
Lady
Mytchett?'

‘No. My late husband was in Sir Richard's regiment, killed soon after we were married. He was Sir Lionel's brother.' She almost smiled at Evie's surprise. ‘Sir Lionel Mytchett is my brother-in-law and, no, before you jump to conclusions, we are not lovers. He stays here when he wants to quit London, when things get too hot for him, you understand. By that, I mean when he runs out of money. I have my uses,' she added in a quiet tone loaded with bitterness, her lips touching the top of her child's head. ‘Don't I, Richie love?'

‘How old is he?' Evie asked.

‘Almost four. He can talk well enough when he wants to. Takes after his father for that.'

‘Sir Richard?'

‘Yes. He doesn't remember him though.' She looked about her as if she also was struggling to remember him. ‘It wasn't like this, then.'

‘Forgive me for asking, but what
was
it like? Was Sir Richard generous?'

‘You may as well know. The house was left to me by my husband, so Sir Richard had no expense there. In fact, he did quite well for himself to have a house bought by his wife's father and another one here owned by me. He paid for things, when he came to visit, and I suppose you could say I was kept in a modest style, though he never showed me off and I never had enough to save. He was not over-generous. Women were commodities to him, but without that support I would have fared much worse. Especially when this one came along.'

‘But when Sir Richard died, surely he made provision for you both?'

Her top lip was pulled in between her teeth as, slowly, she shook her head. ‘No. He didn't. Not one penny. Well, that would have been to admit that we existed, wouldn't it? And that would never do. After that, we didn't exist, Miss Ballard. I take in sewing because I can do it at home, but at the time it hit me hard, I can tell you, with his child to provide for. And my brother-in-law sponging off me as if I were a gold mine.'