His Mistress By Christmas (16 page)

“Ah, well, that will ease the pain of my demise.”

“Something to look forward to,” she said pleasantly.

“But not yet.” He smiled. “As I am not ill, simply tired.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I have not been sleeping well as of late.”

“Oh?” An innocent note sounded in her voice.

“Your fault entirely.”

“How very odd, as I would have blamed you.”

His eyes narrowed. “How have you been sleeping?”

“Like a baby in his mother’s arms,” she lied. “Why, my head scarcely touches the pillow before I am fast asleep.”

“No doubt.”

“Shall I call for tea? Of course not. You would probably prefer brandy.” She started across the room, then paused and studied him. “Or perhaps an abundance of brandy, or other spirits, is what has interfered with your slumber?”

“Entirely possible,” he murmured.

She bit back a satisfied smile and stepped to the side table bearing the brandy decanter. Even if she was about to—she winced—compromise, it was good to know that their days apart had been as unpleasant for him as they had been for her. She poured him a glass.

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” she said as if she didn’t care.

“You told me not to bother coming back.”

“You told me there were dozens of women more than willing to marry you.” She turned toward him and started back across the room.

His brows drew together. “I did not.”

She shrugged. “It was implied.” She handed him the glass. “Why did you come back?”

“Did you really think you could get rid of me simply by turning down my proposal?” He took a sip.

“I had no desire to get rid of you. If you recall, I offered a proposal of my own.”

“Oh, I recall very nearly every word.” He paused. “I have been giving a great deal of thought to our last conversation.”

“Really? I haven’t given it a second thought.”

He snorted in disbelief.

“Well, perhaps one thought. Possibly two.” She should probably come right out with it. Still, the time didn’t seem quite right. Better to wait and see what he had to say. “And have you come to any conclusions?”

“Several.”

“And?”

“First of all, you have my apologies.” He shook his head. “I should not have lost my temper.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” She paused. “Perhaps I should apologize for that as well.”

“Nor should I have asked you about previous”—he cleared his throat—”lovers.”

“If you are waiting for me to volunteer information, you shall have to wait a very long time.” She was not about to tell him there had been no previous lovers aside from her late husband. She smiled pleasantly.

“I’m not.” He studied her intently. “As you said, it’s none of my concern.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Nothing of . . . of that nature that occurred before I met you is my concern. And I shall not again ask you about . . . about—”

“Lovers?” This wouldn’t be nearly as much fun if indeed she’d had a large number of lovers or any. As she hadn’t, this was most amusing.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Your past is your past. As is mine.”

She raised a brow. “Then I am not to ask you any questions about your amorous adventures?”

“Absolutely not,” he said staunchly.

“You needn’t sound so indignant.”

“I am indignant.” His brow furrowed. “I would never discuss one woman with another.”

“I daresay I probably wouldn’t ask for names. But I can’t imagine in all those exotic places you’ve been, you haven’t had equally exotic adventures of an amorous nature that you don’t relate in your books. With Chinese princesses or Arabian dancing girls or the daughters of tribal chieftains.”

“Wives,” he said under his breath.

“What?”

His eyes widened, as if he hadn’t realized he had said that aloud. “Oh, um, just a thought.”

“Do share, Sebastian.”

He hesitated for a long moment, obviously debating the wisdom of sharing, then blew a resigned breath. “There are tribes, in various parts of the world, in which chieftains offer one of their wives to their guests. It’s a gesture of hospitality,” he added quickly, as if that made it acceptable.

“How very
generous
of them.” She smiled innocently.

“It’s an accepted—no, expected—practice in those societies,” he said firmly.

“Of course.”

“It is considered extremely offensive to reject such an offer.”

“No doubt.”

“I know that look.” His eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking it’s a pity you didn’t put that in one of your books.” She lowered her voice in a confidential manner. “It would surely increase sales, you know.”

He smiled weakly.

“And I’m thinking it’s fortunate we do not have such customs in this country.” She shook her head reluctantly. “I cannot see you graciously accepting the company of, oh, say, Lady Chutley for the evening—who is every bit as portly as her husband, although so pleasant a woman one scarcely notices the mustache.”

He chuckled and sipped his brandy. “Not willingly.”

“And I am also thinking, I would very much like to hear more of the amorous adventures of Sir Sebastian Hadley-Attwater. I wager I would find them fascinating.”

“You are an unusual woman, Veronica.”

“Yes, I am. Besides, one never knows . . .” She met his gaze directly, plucked his glass from his hand, took a long sip of his brandy, and returned his glass. Her gaze never left his. “I might learn something quite instructive.”

“Yes, well . . .” He downed the rest of his brandy and stepped back. “That would be most inappropriate.”

“You telling me of your amorous exploits or my learning from them?”

“Both.”

“There you are, being so endearingly stuffy again.”

“I know.” He shook his head. “You seem to bring it out in me.”

“How delightful.” She cast him a wicked grin.

“Regardless,” he said firmly, “I have no intention of sharing my more intimate encounters with you.”

“Why not?” She moved closer. “I have always thought that one should never pass up the opportunity to learn something of interest.”

“I doubt there is anything you can learn from . . .” He turned on his heel, crossed the room, and refilled his glass. “And you have changed the subject.”

“Have I?”

“You know you have. As I was saying, I have given our discussion a great deal of thought.” He came toward her.

“Yes, you did say that.”

“And I have come to a decision.” His manner was casual, as if his decision was of no importance.

She drew a deep breath. “As have I.”

He studied her closely. “It seems to me that a certain amount of compromise may be in order.”

“Compromise? How very interesting.” She shook her head. “I have never been fond of compromise.”

“No, I didn’t think you were.” He smiled. “Nor am I.”

“However . . .” At once she was grateful she hadn’t blurted out her own version of compromise. “I do think, in this particular instance, compromise may be something to consider.”

“Now that I have found you, Veronica, I do not intend to lose you.” Determination sounded in his tone and echoed in his eyes. The oddest thrill ran through her.

“Well then.” An annoying breathless note sounded in her voice, and she cleared her throat. “What sort of compromise do you have in mind?”

“I have a house I recently purchased in the country. I had planned to spend Christmas alone there with my new wife.” He aimed her a meaningful look. “However, as my plans did not take into account your unwillingness to marry, obviously I need to reconsider them.”

“My, life does seem to be filled with all sorts of compromise, doesn’t it?”

“Apparently,” he said. “As I cannot have my wife with me for Christmas, I should very much like to have my”—he heaved a reluctant sigh—”my mistress.”

Surprise widened her eyes. “Your what?”

“You, Veronica. I want you to spend Christmas with me in the country.”

“Christmas?”

“And stay through Twelfth Night, of course.”

“How lovely.” She paused. “As your mistress?”

“Unless you have reconsidered and would prefer to marry me.”

“I haven’t.” She narrowed her eyes. “This doesn’t sound like a compromise to me, as you are yielding to my wishes. What are you not saying?”

“This arrangement is not permanent,” he said firmly. “More of a trial, something of an experiment, if you will.”

“I’m not sure I like being an experiment,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ve never been one before.”

“I might not like having a mistress—”

“Legions of women, of course.” She nodded. “Hard to give up. Quite understandable.”

He ignored her. “And you might not like being one.”

“As it was my idea, I doubt that.” Although, there did seem to be a growing number of concerns she had not considered.

“While I have always attempted patience, although it has never been easy, I am apparently quite impatient in regards to you.” He shook his head. “I do not relish the idea of being without you. And I had my, well, my heart quite set on Christmas with you. Therefore, in the spirit of compromise . . .” His gaze met hers. “Will you join me for Christmas?”

“Why, Sebastian.” Her heart fluttered and she smiled. “This is so—”

“Please don’t say ‘endearing.’ ”

“I wasn’t.” She shook her head. “I was going to say ‘wonderful. ‘ Quite, quite wonderful.”

“You do understand this is not a victory for you. It is a compromise.”

“I understand completely.” She beamed. “And I should be delighted to join you for Christmas.”

“Excellent,” he said gruffly.

“It’s still nearly two weeks until Christmas. When shall we leave?”

“The house is only a few hours from London. It was in a state of some disrepair when I purchased it, soon after my return to England. However, I did hire a staff and I arranged for considerable work to be done. If I had a wife . . . ,” he said pointedly.

“She could arrange such details?”

“She could make certain the house is as she wants it.”

“Well, there are hundreds of other women willing to fill that position. . . .”

He rolled his gaze toward the ceiling. “As I have not seen the house for several months, I should like to assess the progress and speed it along, if necessary, before you join me.” He paused. “I plan to leave tomorrow. I would ask that you join me in a week.”

“An entire week?” she said without thinking.

He grinned. “Will you miss me?”

Yes!
“I have a great deal to do if I am to leave town.” She sniffed. “Why, I still have presents to decide on. And Christmas cards to address. And charitable contributions—”

He stepped toward her, wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her close against him. He stared into her eyes. “Will you miss me?”

She gazed up at him. Her heart thudded in her chest. “You’re a very hard man not to—”

His eyes narrowed. “Will you miss me?”

“Yes, yes, I will miss you. I shall think of you night and day. And I promise to count the minutes until I see you again.” She huffed. “There now, are you happy?”

“Blissful.” He grinned.

“Are you going to release me now?”

“I haven’t decided.” His gaze slipped to her lips and back to her eyes.

“If you’re not going to release me, you should probably do something.”

“Should I?” He slid his other arm around her. She slipped her hands up to rest on his chest. “What would you suggest?”

“What would I suggest?” Exasperation washed through her. “Goodness, Sebastian, if I have to be the one who—”

Without warning, his lips crushed hers, hard and demanding. Her mouth opened to his, and he tasted of brandy and adventure and a hunger she shared. Her hands fisted in the fabric of his coat. Passion, unrelenting and long denied, weakened her bones, and she wondered that she could stand at all. She melted against him, into him, his body hot and hard against hers. And she wanted, she ached, she longed for more. For him.

At last, he raised his head. “The one who what?”

“What?” Dear Lord, she couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought. Nor did she think her knees would support her.

He chuckled.

“You needn’t look so smug.” She drew a deep breath. “It’s not at all endearing.”

“Oh, but I am smug.” His kissed her again, softly this time. His lips warm and caressing against hers. An exploration of desire and more. Whereas his first kiss had been driven by passion, this one was driven by something deeper, something wonderful. Finally, he drew back and smiled. “Very smug.”

He released her and stepped away. “One week, Veronica.”

“One week,” she murmured.

He nodded and strode from the room, leaving her to stare after him. She sank down onto the sofa, a sweet, tremulous feeling somewhere deep inside her. Dear Lord. She pressed shaking fingers to her lips. She could still feel the warmth of his lips against hers. That was not at all like the brief kiss she had given him at the theater. This was a kiss that would linger in a woman’s memory or perhaps her heart. A kiss to cling to for a lifetime. The man certainly knew what he was doing. Still, it didn’t strike her as the kind of kiss that came from practice or lust but rather from affection, even, dare she say, love?

Was it possible? Could he be in love with her? And, more to the point, was she in love with him?

The question alone struck her as extremely odd. She was never indecisive about anything. With Charles she had never doubted love, although, admittedly, she had never experienced it before, but desire was a bit more tentative. With Sebastian, love was elusive and teasing and, as of yet, uncertain, but passion and longing were unmistakable. She wanted this man without question or hesitation. Perhaps it was because she was now older and more experienced.

Odd as well that even though Sebastian did not call this her victory, in truth, it was. Why, she didn’t even have to offer engagement as a compromise, although that still might be useful at some point. He was willing to accept her as his mistress, at least, for Christmas. Sebastian was not the type of man to surrender what he wanted this easily. But she had gotten exactly what she wanted, and he had, well, lost.

Of course. She should have realized it at once. The man was not giving up his quest for marriage. He was simply changing his field of battle. What better way to convince her to marry him than by placing her in a domestic setting—at Christmas, no less—with a house in need of being set to rights and a new staff to be trained? After all, what man could truly run a household? And what woman could resist such a challenge?