His Mistress By Christmas (13 page)

“But you never seduced your husband?”

“When one is married, at least in my experience, little persuasion is involved.”

“That is good to know,” he said under his breath, struggling to maintain his defenses against the feel of her luscious body on his and her lips against his skin.

“Although I suppose it depends on the wife.” She raised her head and smiled into his eyes. “I was never particularly averse to marital relations.”

He stared. “You weren’t?”

“Not at all. I quite enjoyed it.”

“You did?” He shivered with suppressed desire.

She chuckled. “Have I shocked you again?”

“I’m not sure you could.” He grinned. “I rather suspected as much.” And—damnation—ultimately his intentions were honorable. He would not be less than honorable now. “So are you trying to seduce me?”

“I am trying.”

He slid his arms around her, rolled her onto her back, and gazed into her eyes. “One doesn’t seduce the woman one intends to marry. Nor does one allow that woman to seduce him. So right now I am going to kiss you quite thoroughly, then summon all my resolve and strength of purpose, which—God knows—are very nearly at their limits right now, and then I am going to say good night.”

“That’s completely absurd. One can certainly seduce . . .” Her eyes widened. “Sebastian—”

“Veronica Smithson, will you marry me?”

“What?”

“Marry me. Marry me tomorrow.”

She stared wide-eyed. “Why?”

“Why?” Hardly the answer he expected. “Because I asked.”

“Surely you don’t ask every woman before you—”

“No, of course not,” he said staunchly. “I have never asked anyone to marry before now.”

“I am flattered.” She smiled in a weak sort of way. “But why do you want to marry me?”

“Because there is no one more perfect for you than me. We are right for each other, meant for each other.” Yes, that was good. Women generally loved the whole idea of fate. “Because I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any woman.”

“Oh my.” She sat up and stared. “How very—”

“Don’t say ‘endearing.’ ”

“But it is. Very much so. I’m not sure what to say.”

” ‘Yes’ is the usual answer.”

“And an excellent answer it is, too,” she said slowly. “It’s simply not, well, mine.”

He drew his brows together. “What do you mean, it’s not yours?”

“Exactly what I said.” She edged away on the chaise and shook her head. “I have no desire to marry again.”

“Nonsense.” He scoffed. “All women wish to marry.”

“And I did marry. Once, and once was quite enough.”

“But—”

“Sebastian, I like my life. I like my independence, my freedom. I like not having to be accountable to a husband for what I say and what I do. I like being able to make my own decisions.”

“That needn’t change.” Was she actually saying no? To him?

“It needn’t but it will.” She shook her head. “Once I marry, my independence is gone. My fortune becomes yours. I become little more than chattel.”

“I would never think of you as chattel!”

“Perhaps not, but the rest of the world will.”

“Veronica.” He chose his words with care. “You were married once before. Were you happy?”

“Yes.”

“And independent?”

“Within reason.”

“How is this any different?”

“You are different. And I am not the same as I once was.” She sighed, stood up, and stepped to the table. She picked up his glass and handed it to him. “I am who I am now, and I have no intention of changing.”

“I am not asking you to change. I like you precisely as you are.”

“You do now, but you have certain expectations in a wife.” She picked up her glass. “Do you not?”

“I suppose. I really haven’t given it any thought.”

“Tell me, what do you want in a wife?”

“I want you,” he said firmly.

“Yet another excellent answer. Perhaps I should have asked what your expectations are in a wife.”

“The same as any man, I would think,” he said slowly.

“You want a wife who can manage a household, entertain properly, provide children?”

He nodded. “Well, yes.”

“I have managed my own household, as well as my finances, for years. I am an accomplished hostess, and as for children, I have always thought I would like children one day.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“While I accept the need for a certain amount of compromise, I am not willing to let someone else control my life.” She sipped her brandy. “You say you don’t want me to change, and I believe you mean that today. You are a very successful man, and you know your own mind. But there will come a time when you won’t want a wife who does as she pleases. Who supports causes with which you don’t agree. Who handles her own finances. Who thinks for herself and makes her own decisions.”

“I want you,” he said again.

“I want you too.” She shrugged. “But I do not wish to marry.”

He stared in stunned disbelief. Was she really turning him down?

“However, I have, oh . . .” She thought for a moment. “A counteroffer, if you will.”

“This is not a negotiation,” he said sharply. “It’s a proposal.”

“Then I have a proposal of my own.” She studied him carefully. “I don’t wish to be your wife, but I would quite like to be your mistress.”

“My what?” Surely she hadn’t said that.

“You needn’t look so outraged.” She smiled pleasantly. “People enter into this sort of arrangement all the time.”

“Not me.”

She raised a brow.

“Certainly, I have been with other women, but I have never . . .
kept
a woman.”

“Then it’s simply a definition we disagree on, or the word itself. But
lover
is too frivolous. And
paramour
too pretentious. No,
mistress
is definitely the right term.” She nodded. “However, I am not suggesting financial support. That would be absurd. Here’s what I propose.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “We shall be together in all manner except living arrangement. I shall continue to live in my house, and you shall continue to live wherever it is you live now. But when it comes to social events and intimate relations, we shall be exclusive to one another.”

He gasped. “That’s scandalous. What will people say?” What would his family say?

“I wouldn’t think we would announce our arrangement to the world. I had planned on being discreet. Keeping this between the two of us.”

“Nonetheless, there will be gossip.”

“Some, I suppose.” She considered him closely. “I didn’t think you cared about gossip.”

“I do when it involves the woman I want to marry!”

“You needn’t raise your voice, and there’s no need to be so indignant.” Her jaw tightened. “And, as I do not wish to marry, that woman is not me.”

“I don’t want a mistress!”

“And I don’t want a husband.”

“I won’t be another one of your lovers. To be discarded when you have tired of me.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Another lover? You think I have had lovers?”

“Judging by your behavior this evening, and your
counteroffer,
it is not a far-fetched conclusion.” He narrowed his gaze. “Have you?”

“I believe you just lost the right to ask me that!” She glared.

He didn’t care. “Have you?”

“That is none of your concern!”

“Of course it’s my concern. I asked you to marry me!”

“And I said no!”

“I don’t want a mistress, Veronica. I want a wife!”

She squared her shoulders. “Then I suggest you look elsewhere.”

“Perhaps I will.” He tossed back the rest of his drink, slammed the glass down on the table, and started toward the door, scooping up his tie and collar from the floor on the way.

“Good luck to you!”

“I don’t need luck!” He reached the door, then turned back to her. “Do you have any idea how many women would jump at the chance to marry me?”

“Spineless, insipid creatures with no minds of their own? Willing to trade freedom for security?” Sparks flashed in her eyes. “No doubt there are dozens of them.”

He gritted his teeth. “If you come to your senses—”

“I won’t,” she snapped. “Because I haven’t lost my senses!”

“—Portia knows where I can be reached.” He nodded and yanked open the door and stepped through.

“If you change your mind,” she called after him, “don’t bother coming back!”

He slammed the door behind him and didn’t break stride until he was down the stairs and out the front door. He hailed a passing cab and was halfway to Sinclair’s house before his anger eased and rational thought returned. Shock, however, still lingered.

He had never in a thousand years imagined she would turn him down. There was an awful, dull ache somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. How could she? Didn’t she realize that, aside from the fact that they wanted each other in a strictly carnal sense, they suited each other? Why, he could easily envision them debating and arguing and laughing together for the rest of their days. It would never be boring or tedious or dull. Not with Veronica. He had no desire to change her, and he resented her accusing him of such a thing.

Oh, certainly life with a wife who did as she pleased and spoke out on ridiculous causes like female membership in the Explorers Club would not be easy. Admittedly, he had not considered that. But it scarcely mattered. Life with her would be a challenge each and every day. And it would definitely be an adventure. What man of his nature could ask for more?

She turned him down? He shook his head in disbelief. Even if one disregarded the fact that they were obviously made for each other—soul mates, as it were—he was Sir Sebastian Hadley-Attwater, adventurer, world traveler, author, and he was bloody well famous. Women fell at his feet. Or into his bed.

Not that Veronica wasn’t willing to do that, as per her outrageous counteroffer. Be his mistress indeed. It was shocking. Scandalous. Granted he’d never been concerned with scandal before, but this was different. This was important. This was the rest of his blasted life! And hers. He didn’t want the woman he loved hurt by scandal. As strong as she thought she was, she enjoyed her position in life too much not to be effected by gossip.

He should have mentioned that he loved her. It was certainly a point in his favor. He winced. And he probably shouldn’t have accused her of having had lovers. Even if she had, it didn’t matter. Not to him. She’d had a life before they’d met, just as he had. As for her outrageous counteroffer . . . He shook his head. He couldn’t believe any woman would prefer scandal to propriety—even Veronica. He had no intention of treating her like chattel. Or like anything less than what she was. As for allowing her to make her own decisions, he could accept that, within reason.

Perhaps he was going about this all wrong. Perhaps the first step to convincing her to be his wife was accepting her as his mistress. No. His jaw tightened. He was not going to begin their lives together with her dictating all the rules. Absolutely not. Veronica Smithson had no idea who she was dealing with.

Sir Sebastian Hadley-Attwater had always gotten what he’d wanted. He’d wanted to climb the Himalayas, and he had. He’d wanted to follow in Dr. Livingstone’s footsteps and feel the spray on his face from Victoria Falls, and he had. He’d wanted to journey up the Rio Negro, and he had.

And what he wanted now was this annoying, stubborn,
independent
woman for his wife, and he would have her. But on his terms, not hers.

He crossed his arms over his chest and settled back against the seat cushion.

He just had to figure out how.

Veronica resisted the urge to throw her glass at the closed door. Instead, she crossed the room to the brandy decanter, refilled her glass, and took a long drink. No need to keep her wits about her now. For all the good it had done her. It might well have been better if she’d been inebriated. At least then she wouldn’t have been quite so shocked by his proposal of marriage.

Proposal of marriage? She groaned and stepped into her bedroom. Whatever had gotten into the man? Sebastian Hadley-Attwater was not the type of man to want marriage. Hadn’t Portia said that the night of the lecture? Why did he have to want marriage now? It changed everything. And Portia was right—he had been ever so proper because his eye was on marriage.

She downed the rest of her brandy, set the glass on her nightstand, and fell onto her bed. Maybe she was
special,
after all. Or seriously insane. Or at the very least a tart. What kind of woman would rather be a mistress than a wife? But the very idea of marrying again clenched her stomach.

She rolled over on her back, sighed, and stared up at the ceiling. It had been different with Charles. She’d been twenty-two and, even then, strong-willed and independent. And Charles had been, well, not unlike Sebastian, although Charles apparently really had been with legions of women before her. He’d lived an outrageous, roguish sort of life before they’d met, and his family had never imagined he’d marry at all. He was also some twenty years older than she, far wiser, and a man who understood exactly what he was getting in a wife. He had once told her, he wouldn’t have married at all if not for her. He hadn’t wanted a wife who was perfect, as the world viewed wives. He had cherished her spirit and determination and all those qualities society as a whole deemed unsuitable. He had found it amusing to have a wife who knew her own mind and didn’t conceal her intelligence. He had accepted her for exactly who she was. Even so, he had made the decisions regarding their finances and their life. But Charles had died three years ago, and she was now accustomed to making her own decisions. She couldn’t give that up.

She’d been lucky once. How could she possibly expect another man to accept her unconventional nature? In spite of his words, Sebastian would hate marriage to her. He would want things his way. She would want to do as she wished and thought best. There would come a time when he would expect her to be conventional, to acquiesce to his desires. To behave in a respectable and proper sort of way. To keep her opinions to herself. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind about that. Hadn’t his recent respectable manner proved it?