Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (63 page)

Magnificently naked, he drew her to her feet with his warm hands on her elbows. ‘We'll soon find out,' he said, huskily.

She need not have been concerned about his memory, for the long slow raptures of his loving began even while they stood pressed together along every surface, their hands reaching and smoothing over contours denied to them since their previous encounter, every touch inflaming their desire, increasing their need of each other. Words of endearment slipped between kisses, most of which Annemarie had not heard before in this context—‘superb creature...bewitching...dazzling beauty...fascinating...mismanaged woman'—words that made her feel rare, unique and desperately wanted. Once again, flimsy unstable thoughts of the reasons behind this relationship tried to break through the bliss that engulfed her in his arms, thoughts to do with that word ‘mismanaged' that no doubt referred to her initial hostility and her need for retribution. But Verne's skill was such that few thoughts survived for more than a heartbeat under the burning path of his hands, caressing, lifting and stroking, sending shivers of ecstasy deep into places that no one had reached before him.

On the cool linen sheets she was covered by the warmth of his body, glowing above her in the soft candle-light and rippling with a vigour that bore no affinity to any of those white marble examples in her father's collection. Verne's physique was firm and substantial, powerfully built and in superb condition, this alone being enough to excite Annemarie to heights that closed her mind to everything except being possessed by such a red-blooded male whose intelligence was as robust as the rest of him. He was, she thought, a complete man, more than a match for her in every way, imposing himself upon her only so far and allowing her to do what she believed was what she wanted.

Her way and his fused together in deliciously slow explorations that drew gasps of delight and moans of pleasure, taken by him as a signal to go further than before with hands and lips, knowing that the whole long night lay at their disposal. Time slipped seamlessly away as Verne taught her things about herself that she had never suspected, tender places on her body that responded like wildfire to his touch and melted her thighs, spreading her legs wider. ‘Now,' she whispered. ‘I cannot wait any longer. Now, Jacques!'

‘Shall I make you wait, my beauty?' he said, teasing her. ‘Shall I make you plead?'

‘I
am
pleading,' she said. ‘I'm aching for you.'

There was no more banter then as he ceased the tantalising caress that had already worked its magic, taking its place with his throbbing member that threatened to rebel against his discipline. And although, this time, his entry was rather less gentle than before, it was what Annemarie wanted, for now she trusted his motives as she had never trusted her late husband's, not as anger or disregard but as an expression of unbridled passion. She cried out as he joined her, bringing his head down to meet her lips in a surfeit of sensation to assure him that he had read her mind well, that he need not hold in check the powerhouse of his loins. ‘Make it last...oh...make it last,' she contradicted herself, softly.

‘Ah, my love...I cannot. I want you too much...forgive me!' He could not see her laughter. He had waited too long for her plea and now his desire completely overwhelmed him, carrying him wildly on without knowing whether she had kept pace with him or not.

But she had. Again, he had taken her to the very brink of the abyss from which she had flown and soared into unthinking space as her body sang to its own kind of harmony and vibrated to her lover's insistent beat. Still pulsing to the rhythm, her body settled back to earth as her arms enclosed his sagging shoulders, her lips whispering words of their own devising that told him of her euphoria and of her amusement at the fierce onslaught of his hunger. She did not tell him of two words she'd heard him utter in his undisciplined moments that might, if she'd taken them at face value, have given her an indication of his feelings for her. Had they been an idle slip of the tongue? Had he been holding the sentiment in check until then for fear of seeming presumptuous? Was he now beginning to feel for her what she could no longer ignore in herself and, if so, where was this dangerous game going to end and with whose heartbreak?

* * *

The amethyst necklace had long since slipped away to tangle in Annemarie's hair, though it had not interfered with the next sleepy lovemaking or the one after that at dawn and was anything but sleepy. As the light seeped through the curtains, there was laughter and protest as priceless jewels were disentangled, the kind of mirth that had never before played any part in her experience.

‘Keep still, dammit!'

‘Ouch! That's still attached.'

‘Wait. I shall have to kiss you again.'

‘No, that's Evie with our tea. Cover yourself!'

‘Why? Hasn't she seen...?'

‘Shh! Let me go! How am I going to explain this?' Annemarie held up a tress of black hair with a stream of sparkling brilliants clinging tenaciously to the end.

As it turned out, there was no need for explanations. The sight that met Evie's astonished gaze was of her naked mistress sitting cross-legged with her back to Lord Verne, who appeared to be engaged in extracting a fistful of jewels from a very tousled head.

* * *

Two days of being almost constantly in Verne's company only made Annemarie regret that it could not have been longer. Between walks along the shore and drives through the country lanes, during which they were allowed the use of the Prince's curricles, phaetons and high-stepping horses, they visited the shops, libraries and tearooms. And at last she was shown round the ongoing renovations to the Royal Pavilion, so opulent that she came away feeling quite intoxicated by his Highness's over-decorated style. It seemed to typify the complexity of his nature: a man of contrasts and contradictions, a man who could spend thousands of pounds on baubles for his lady friends, yet ignore them when their need was greatest.

They walked towards the carriage-house where a curricle had been harnessed up for them. Annemarie went on ahead to speak to the horses just as Verne's attention was diverted by the appearance of his friend Lord Bockington who had shown off his gelding's paces to them on their first visit. ‘Something you might be interested to know, sir,' said the fair-haired young man, keeping his voice low.

‘Tell me?' said Verne, walking with him to the back of the curricle.

‘Well, last time we met, I was very struck by Lady Golding's beauty, sir. And I suppose it stayed in my mind for quite some time.'

‘I'm sure. Go on.'

‘So I tried to recall when I'd last seen a woman with her looks, then I knew. It was last summer in London. The woman I saw was an older version of Lady Golding. Surely a relative, I'd have thought. She was so like her.'

‘Was she alone?'

‘No, she was in the company of the Marquess of Hertford. I remember it well.'

‘Hertford? Are you sure, Bock?'

‘Positive, sir. He was helping her into his carriage outside his house in Manchester Square as I passed by.' The note of concern had not escaped him. ‘I don't know whether the Marchioness was with them or not. She may have been in the carriage. I didn't look. I had no reason to.'

‘Of course not. Was it a travelling coach?'

‘Four horses and...yes...come to think of it, there were trunks on the back. I thought no more about it at the time except that Lord Hertford always manages to have a beautiful woman with him, wherever he is.'

Verne noted his friend's wistful tone. ‘And if you had his kind of blunt, so might you, Bock. Even if you were as ugly as sin itself. Which you're not.' Without actually saying so, Verne knew that his reference to Lord Hertford's looks would be perfectly understood. He was known as ‘Red Herrings' to his acquaintances because of his fiery red hair and whiskers. ‘Thank you for telling me,' he said. ‘It might be useful.' Verne nodded as Lord Bockington bowed and turned to go. ‘Now, my lady. Are we ready to set off?'

His lack of conversation was passed off as concentration as he took the curricle eastwards away from Brighton's traffic, but soon it became obvious that he was preoccupied. ‘You're very quiet,' said Annemarie.

‘I was thinking that this will be our last day here. We must start for London early, tomorrow.'

There was, she thought, the slightest hint of anticipation in his voice.

Chapter Eight

V
erne pressed his lips upon the cool brow that lay against his shoulder. ‘Sit up, hussy, and tidy yourself. We shall be in town soon.'

Languorously, Annemarie unwound herself from his arms, pushed a stray lock of hair back into place and yawned, taking the ruched royal-blue bonnet he offered her. ‘Must be the sea air,' she murmured.

Smiling at the excuse, Verne could think of other reasons, but her sleep with her feet up on the Prince's green cushions had given him a chance to consider the implications of what he'd heard from Lord Bockington on the previous day. While any news at all must be regarded as good, he hoped his young friend might have been mistaken.

Of all men for a woman of quality to be involved with, the second Marquess of Hertford was not by any standards an ideal choice, not because of his unusual appearance or his undeniable wealth, both of which had the power to attract women from every strata of society, but because of his notorious reputation as a seducer with whom no female was safe. Age, apparently, was no obstacle to him, though it was known that he preferred married to single women, judging by the many illegitimate children he'd sired and who had been integrated into the husband's family. It was a risk women seemed willing to take, even while they regretted his utter heartlessness. As the recipient of at least eighty thousand pounds a year, Hertford could afford to live in great style, to indulge himself, his wife and his good-for-nothing son, to gamble to excess and to carve for himself a niche in the Prince Regent's exclusive circle of friends by pandering to his needs, which were mostly for flattery and finance. For a man like ‘Red Herrings', this was no hardship.

However, that was not all the two men had in common, for Lady Hertford had also been an intimate of the Prince Regent for many years, so intimate, in fact, that the press lampooned the pair as overweight lovers, even though their friendship was of a more cerebral nature than that and so beyond the interest of news reporters eager to discredit them. A formidable lady of considerable presence, Lady Hertford refused to allow this to embarrass her, just as she refused to be embarrassed by her errant husband. In a position of influence with the Prince, and therefore with the rest of society, she stuck loyally to his side, fending off all would-be rivals for her special role as mentor, confidante and bountiful giver of the approval he had always wanted from his parents.

Lord Verne and the Hertfords had known each other for many years for, like the Prince, the Marquess was a multi-faceted character of great intelligence, worth fostering as a friend if only for his ability to converse on an astonishing range of subjects. As a serious connoisseur of paintings, he knew more about art than anyone else known to Verne. It was for this reason that the two men worked together on the Prince's collection, buying and selling artefacts for his new seaside retreat at Brighton and for Carlton House, his expanding mansion in central London. The money spent on these two alone was what Annemarie regarded as iniquitous, yet it was what Verne and Hertford helped him to do.

While Lord Hertford's intentions towards women, especially beautiful ones, were rarely innocent, Verne could understand how, if Lady Benistone had cut herself adrift from Sir Lionel Mytchett, any port in a storm might be preferable to being left totally unsupported. One way or another, Verne intended to make some enquiries as soon as they reached Curzon Street, which they did some moments after noon.

* * *

Lady Benistone's choice of protectors, on that dreadful day, had been made on the basis of a friendship begun in the earliest years of their marriages to very different men whose emotional support had failed to match the material benefits supplied with so little effort. Apart from Lady Hertford and Lord Benistone's cousin, Mrs Cardew, Esme had complained to no one else about the emptiness of the marriage in which she felt usurped by Elmer's other interests and by his self-absorbed lack of involvement in his family's affairs. She had sometimes wondered whether, if she'd given him sons instead of daughters, his concern for them, and her, might have been evident in more personal ways. She knew it often happened like this, but his initial passion for her had been so very great, leading her to expect it to last longer.

So it was no great surprise to Lady Hertford that the dear friend who was carried into her home that evening should have chosen the sympathy, understanding and care she could be sure of rather than risk a return to something less.

Apart from that, in the terrible trauma of her mind, Esme knew she had helped to bring this upon herself by trying to outwit a scoundrel who lived by outwitting others. The explanations that her family had a right to expect were beyond her. Lady Hertford had no such expectations.

Having already been acquainted with the details of Esme's flight from the youngest daughter's coming-out ball—social news travelled fast—Lady Hertford knew better than to suggest a return home or to inform the family of her whereabouts. That would have to come from Esme herself, when she was ready. Meanwhile, keeping the secret from everyone except her personal maid and the Marquess, who knew more than a thing or two about subterfuge, Lady Hertford tended her guest like a mother, comforting, compassionate and without blame for her foolishness or noisy outrage against the man who had wronged her, which would have served no useful purpose. Being married to a man like Hertford and the bosom-friend of the Prince Regent had prepared her well for the vagaries of human behaviour.

Lady Benistone's lingering recovery received a setback, however, only two months later when she made a horrifying discovery. ‘I thought it was my courses misbehaving again,' she moaned, recovering from a bout of nausea. She sat on the edge of her bed in her nightgown, bathed in the bright morning light that hurt her eyes. ‘But it's not, Isabella. Not this time. Not with the sickness, too. Oh, my dear, what on earth am I going to do?'

This was a question Lady Hertford had already asked herself. She had even discussed it with her husband who, unsurprisingly, had seen possible complications before either of them. ‘Take her up to Ragley,' he'd said, ‘if the worst comes to the worst. She'll be safe enough there.'

The worst had come. ‘We have Ragley Hall,' Isabella said to her distressed friend. ‘You can have the child there and we'll find someone suitable to adopt it. A good woman. There are plenty of them about if you know where to look.'

Once again, Esme was racked with remorse and guilt, but Isabella's reasoning was sounder than she imagined for, as long as she remained in London, the greater the risk of her whereabouts being discovered either by a revengeful Sir Lionel or by the concerned family and a return to the status quo. Or, for that matter, by the Prince Regent who had once wanted her as his mistress and whose affections were fickle, to say the least. That was a risk Isabella was not willing to take. She was persuasive and Esme knew without asking that she would be given more attention and help at Ragley Hall than she'd had for years. Warwickshire, one of the beautiful midland counties, was a peaceful place and Ragley Hall was a massive palace.

Lord Hertford was nothing less than gentlemanly, escorting her in his best coach with trunks full of clothes and everything necessary for her comfort, even during the lengthy months of leisure that lay ahead. Esme had never felt anything but safe with him, for they had once in their youth been lovers, briefly and secretly, and now they were easy friends. He had been furious with Lord Benistone for allowing this catastrophe to happen to his beautiful wife. ‘If she'd been given the support she needed,' he'd railed to his wife, ‘she'd not have been forced to go ahead with her ridiculous scheme in the first place. Why, that young scoundrel was about to make an offer for the daughter...what's her name?'

‘Annemarie. Lady Golding.'

‘That's it. At the youngest daughter's
ball
, would you believe? And even then Benistone had no time to listen. Heaven only knows, I have the greatest respect for him as a collector, but if he'd paid as much attention to his women as he does to his bronzes...'

‘My lord,' said Isabella, ‘I think perhaps one should say no more on that.'

‘Eh? Well, perhaps you're right. You usually are. We all have our weaknesses.'

‘Yes, dear. And our strengths. But Esme ought not to be in a delicate condition at her time of life.'

At that gently tendered opinion, Hertford had the grace to look thoughtful. ‘She'll be all right at Ragley,' he said. ‘We'll get Dr Willetts to stay there when she's due. You've managed to keep this from Prinny, have you?'

‘Not a word,' Isabella replied. ‘He's too concerned about the coming celebrations to think about much else. Poor lamb.'

* * *

Once inside the house on Curzon Street, Annemarie saw that she had taken Verne's teasing too seriously when he'd implied that all would have been made ready for immediate occupation. Indignant rather than disappointed, she saw that, although the staff were in place down to the last button, the furniture and fittings were not. If she wanted to stay the night there, Verne told her, laughing at her thwarted readiness to tell him how his choices did not accord with hers, she would have to go out and buy a bed and something to put on it.

‘Which,' she retorted, loftily, ‘is well within my capabilities, my lord. I have never found it difficult to make that kind of choice, especially when I'm left alone to get on with it.'

‘You will be,' he said as she swished past him into the echoing dining room. ‘I must take my leave of you until this evening. His Highness is expecting me. I'll send the barouche round in an hour to give you time to make a list. Will that do?'

‘Perfectly, I thank you. Expect a certain amount of chaos when you return, but at least you'll have something to sit on by then.'

Stepping aside to avoid two men and a trunk, he caught the gleam of excitement in her eyes at the enjoyable task ahead. ‘And something to lie on, too, I should hope. Make that a priority, won't you? Adieu, my lady.'

There was no time to ask him if that kind of talk was typical between a mistress and her lover, but she could well imagine the snappy kind of answer he would have given. Not once had she left him stuck for a reply.

* * *

By the time Lord Verne returned late that afternoon, the promised chaos was at its height with swarms of aproned delivery men peeling wrappings from walnut tables and chairs as Annemarie ordained their exact position with a graceful waving of arms. One of them was caught in mid-wave by his lordship. ‘Well!' he said, holding her hand. ‘This is all very impressive. For you to do this all on your own is astonishing.'

‘Not alone, my lord. Mrs Cardew and my sister came with me. They're upstairs, putting the bedroom together. Better not go up. You'll see it later. Look there, we have matching sofas and easy chairs.'

‘And what do they match?'

‘Er...the curtains, when they arrive. Oh, and the carpet. Oriental. You'll like it. Soft golds and pinks. Very feminine' Alerted by the slight widening of his eyes, she added, ‘Well, not
too
feminine, though.'

‘Do we have knives and forks?'

‘Of course. And a dinner service. I've invited the family for dinner tomorrow. Our new cook was not in the least put out.'

Verne sprawled into a deep-gold velvety sofa with his arm along the gilded back. ‘I'm glad to hear it. But
you
might be when I tell you we're invited to meet his Royal Highness at Carlton House tomorrow. And before you ask if it can be postponed, my lady, the answer is, no, it can't.' He saw by her sudden stillness and the cool unseeing stare through the to-ing and fro-ing of the servants that she had been quite unprepared for a clash of priorities so soon. Her gaze swung slowly round to meet his, hoping for some compromise. ‘It was part of our agreement,' he reminded her softly so that no one else could hear. ‘And you wanted to meet him, didn't you? Did you think it might have been at your convenience, sweetheart? That would be asking for a miracle.'

She came to perch beside him on the edge of the sofa and to stroke the new pile, her ringlets trembling with the slight shake of her head. ‘No,' she said. ‘Not really. But it's all right, I'll manage. I could have done with the time, that's all. It's only family. I shall have to get used to it, I suppose.'

‘To what? Adapting?'

With a turn of her lovely head, she swept him with her long black lashes and the deep gemstones of her eyes in a look intended to convey some resignation, but which he interpreted as something infinitely more tender. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘Adapting. I must not fail at the first hurdle, must I?'

His hand reached out to cover hers, preventing the stroking. ‘That's my beauty,' he whispered. ‘He's eager to meet you and I can hardly wait to show you off. He remembers you.'

Annemarie smiled down at their hands. It was an intimate gesture rarely seen before servants, but Verne was not one to care much about that. ‘And Mama? Does he remember her, too?'

‘He does. But we shall not take the jewellery. It would not be proper. We'll leave references to the bureau and its contents for another time, unless he brings the subject up. He's already dropped the idea of owning yours.'

‘You mean, since the contents were disposed of?'

‘Yes, he feels safer now. Lady Hamilton and her daughter departed for Calais one night while we were in Brighton, you see. She's escaped her creditors and that's probably the last we'll see of her.'

Taking the letters with her. No more speculation, then, about what she might do with them. From France, probably nothing at all. The end of an episode.

‘Well, well,' she breathed. ‘So that's the end of that.'

‘Is it?' he said, watching her. ‘Is it, my lady? Are you revenged now, or is there more to come? Eh?'