Lord & Master (3 page)

“My name is Mrs. Sweets,” she said, her confidence in her authority evident. “I’ll escort you to the master. Your maid may wait in the servant’s hall.”

It seemed I was to have no say in this. Despite the impropriety of the situation, I followed her as obediently as I would the sterner nannies from my childhood.

My maid now banished to the house’s nether regions, Mrs. Sweets led me through a breathtaking double height saloon, complete with electrified chandeliers, carved Gothic Revival pillars, and—on its second level—a fine strolling gallery. I wished to gawk at the paintings (I thought I spied a Constable!) but wasn’t given time. Thankfully, our destination was less intimidating. Though not plain, the music room was charming, filled with light from many windows and warmed not only by a cozy fire but by the bronze figured silk on the wall panels.

My host sat silent in a wingback chair near the crackling flames, apparently lost in reverie.

Even from a distance I saw he was not aged. Well built and athletic, he appeared a man in his prime—not above three decades, I didn’t think. His hair was the dark gold of guinea coins, the strands straight and styled neatly. Commoner he might be, but the quality and style of his garments were exquisite. Though no dandy, he wore them with élan. His perfectly fitted waistcoat was subtly embroidered.

I suspected he must bring credit to his valet.

I had no more time for suppositions. Mrs. Sweets announced me as the Honorable Miss Beck.

Mr. Call came to his feet to receive me. He was quite tall—more than six feet, I judged. I was petite by comparison, a tiny mare next to a great stallion.

The part of me that relished that idea was embarrassed.

“Miss Beck,” he greeted me in a pleasing baritone. With so fine a voice, I wondered if he sang. He offered me a small bow. “I’m Damien Call. Thank you so much for coming. I hope you don’t mind. I’ve instructed the servants not to interrupt us while we converse.”

Though in some ways this was desirable, in others it alarmed. Rather than say so and draw more attention to the precariousness of my position, I nodded. I was relying on Mr. Poole’s judgment of this man’s character. If the lawyer were mistaken, Mr. Call might do anything to me—and very likely without fear of consequence.

I suppose my anxiety showed.

“Won’t you sit?” Mr. Call inquired in a gentle tone. He indicated the empty chair on the opposite side of the hearth from him. “Perhaps you don’t wish to eat, but you must be parched from your journey.”

Before the hearthstone itself was a three-legged Jacobean table. It held an assortment of tea things, including tiers of small iced cakes my host correctly assumed I’d never succeed in swallowing. As I cautiously lowered my weight to the second chair, Mr. Call lifted a rose-bedecked Sèvres pot.

“I’ll play ‘mother,’ shall I?” he said.

I let him, noting that his proportionately large hands were surprisingly strong and tan. Despite their size, in shape they were as beautiful as the rest of him. His nails were clipped but not buffed. Though he was, from what I could tell, freshly bathed all over, the inside of one wrist bore a healing bruise that fascinated me.

I concluded he used his hands for more than pouring tea.

I squirmed at the realization, unwelcome warmth blooming. I knew in general what the low throbbing meant and didn’t think it wise to be feeling it right then.

Mr. Call passed me the delicate cup and saucer. “I trust this isn’t too full.”

It wasn’t but I couldn’t speak, unsure my hands were steady enough to drink. I found it impossible to look up. Mr. Call’s handsome face seemed better unexamined now that we were so close.

Mr. Call emitted a soft chuckle. “Have I terrified you, Miss Beck? Or are you always this tongue-tied?”

“Forgive me,” I said, my response emerging a little rough. “I’ve never done anything like this.”

“I should hope not,” Mr. Call returned. “You’d be considerably less fit for my purposes if you had.”

This was an odd thing to say. My eyes snapped to his. Immediately I knew I should have exercised more caution. Mr. Call inclined toward me in his seat, shrinking the space between us. His irises were extraordinary: more guinea gold flecked with sparkling splinters of blue and green. His lashes framed them thickly, but his eyes weren’t feminine. They were . . . animal, I thought, as if the spirit of a mountain lion looked out at me.

I’d spent much of my existence unremarked by those around me. Certainly I’d never been stared at this intently. Mr. Call seemed to peer into my soul, searching for I knew not what. He made me aware he was too much for me in every way: too big, too vital, definitely too direct.

Because I was caught by surprise, without time to curb my reaction, I returned his gaze just as forthrightly. In truth, like the mouse before the cat, I doubt I could have looked away.

“Yes,” he mused after a moment, seemingly to himself. “Perhaps you do have enough spirit.”

His words reminded me what we were doing here.

“I can’t believe a man like you hasn’t found a dozen wives!” I blurted.

His dark gold eyebrows shot up. “You flatter me, Miss Beck, which I shall take as a promising sign. My challenge isn’t finding wives in bulk but in procuring
the
wife who suits my particular requirements.”

His voice had sunk to a sort of purr. Affected more than I wished, in parts of my person I preferred not to dwell upon, I fought not to swallow audibly. Setting down my untouched tea, I squeezed my gloved hands together in my lap for courage.

“What requirements do you mean?” I asked.

Though I was breathing too quickly, my question came out crisp.

Seeming not the least put out, Mr. Call leaned back in his chair. His posture remained erect.

“I am proud,” he said, which I’d already guessed. “I admit my wife must be beautiful. A modicum of style is desirable and definitely good manners. I do not mind a bit of shyness, nor am I in need of wit. If my wife does not embarrass me among the spouses of my business colleagues, that will be good enough.”

He looked at me, awaiting a response.

“Numerous women could supply those qualities,” I said. “You haven’t narrowed the field by much.”

The slight smile that tugged his mouth gratified me. Less welcome was my observation of how sensual its contours were.

“Very well,” he continued. “My wife also needs to be innocent, discreet, and obedient.”

“
Obedient
.” I was no suffragette, but this term seemed worth pinning down.

Mr. Call pursed his tempting lips. “Perhaps not in every case but most.” He waved his hand as if dismissing an annoying thought. “Independence of mind is acceptable, but I dislike debate. Strength is an absolute requisite. Delicate women don’t appeal to me at all.”

His list was becoming more complex.

“Anything else?” I asked with a hint of wryness.

He leaned forward across his knees again, enthusiasm for his topic gleaming in his eyes. “I would like a wife I can mold, one who will look to me and not her family—nor the world at large—for her influence. In truth, Miss Beck, distressing though I expect it is to you, your orphan state couldn’t be more ideal!”

He shocked me. I felt what he said was not only hurtful but also ominous. Perhaps I would be willing to be ‘molded,’ as he put it, by a man who was worthy of doing so. I’d experienced little of the world and often felt my character was incompletely formed. Who would I become if I knew more of life? What was my true nature? I craved the answer to those questions. I simply wasn’t sure they ought to be supplied by others.

“You’re thinking very hard,” Mr. Call observed.

“I’d be a fool if I weren’t,” I retorted, my breathlessness undercutting my tart tone.

“What if I were to promise I offer not a cage but freedom?”

Something stirred inside me—as if both words plucked different violin strings within my soul. A cage was safety but freedom . . . Could I even comprehend the concept?

“Don’t you want that?” Mr. Call asked softly. “Haven’t you dreamed, if only now and then, of throwing off the shackles society’s expectations have clapped on you? You, Miss Beck, are a person without a country. Your isolated state has freed you. No laws need apply to you.”

“That isn’t true at all!” I exclaimed, my denial unavoidably impassioned. “Being alone in the world makes one utterly vulnerable to censure . . . and fates considerably worse!”

“Not if you were to marry me,” he said softer yet. “My wife wouldn’t be alone. She’d have my security and strength behind her. My fortune is large, but even if I lost it, I’d build another. My nature does not admit defeat. Should you tie your fate to mine, you’d never have to admit to it either.”

My lashes fluttered rapidly in confusion. He sounded as if he’d made up his mind.

“You
can’t
be proposing,” I objected. “You’ve only just met me.”

He blinked as well. Perhaps he hadn’t realized what his words implied. As he straightened in his chair, tugging his smart waistcoat down, his expression was defensive. “I have
almost
decided. One more vital quality needs to be verified.”

I drew breath, about to protest that
I
required a greater interval to deliberate.

“My wife must be
earthy
,” he said, cutting through my thoughts.

“Earthy?” I repeated, believing I must have misheard him.

His hands waved expressively. “Sensual. Feeling. Possessed of the sexual drive.”

“I know what ‘earthy’ means.” Ignoring my simmering blush, I clutched my fingers tighter together. “You seem to have gotten the wrong idea about me. I am no . . . hoochie-coochie woman. I’ve been raised properly.”

He smiled. “I’m relying on that. I want to be the maestro who wakes you up.”

The
maestro
! Did he mistake me for a musical instrument?

My indignation seemed to deepen his amusement. “Stand, Miss Beck.”

My jaw fell open at his order, my eyes no doubt as wide as saucers.

“Very well,” he said when I failed to rise. “I see I must coax you.”

I wouldn’t have called it coaxing. He gripped me beneath the arms and pulled me onto my feet. He wasn’t rough but he was too strong to resist.

Actually, I wasn’t convinced I’d tried. My heart beat wildly in my bosom, my skin tingling strangely all over. Why did his masterfulness affect me? Did I
wish
to be told what to do?

My traitorous hands suddenly relaxed, settling on his chest as if they belonged there. I noticed his heart was pounding but not as hard as mine. His body, which was very solid beneath his clothes, was noticeably warm. The heat he radiated made me long to rub my cooler limbs against him.

He looked at me from his greater height, his extraordinary eyes trapping mine. “I should ask you if you’ve been kissed, but I believe I know the answer.”

His voice was husky. I dared not speak. I wanted him to kiss me but couldn’t admit it. Maybe he knew. He smiled and bent, his handsome face lowering. As if this were a dream, my hands slid around him, up his spine, and over his broad shoulders. They seemed to tighten there against my will.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured against my lips.

The whisper of his mouth tickled pleasantly. Side to side he dragged it, letting those sensitive, silky surfaces skim each other. I wasn’t afraid—except maybe of myself. I trembled, and the hand he’d spread across the small of my back increased its pressure, urging me toward him. I wanted to go. My corset seemed to tighten, making it difficult to breath. The low throbbing I’d felt before had become an ache. The tips of my breasts pebbled behind my camisole, tenderness also rising there.

When the peaks brushed his shirtfront, I gasped for air.

He turned his head, his tongue slipping through the opening I’d provided.

The sleek wet touch was like an electric current, our separate persons magnetized into one by that unseen force. His breathing quickened and his strong arms came around me, pulling me firmly against him. The movements of his tongue, the intimacy and suggestiveness, compelled me to cling as well. I barely knew how to kiss him back, but I held him tight everywhere.

He probed deeply and then pulled free, panting.

“Do you like my taste?” he asked.

I nodded, robbed of speech by the strong waves of pleasure rolling through my flesh. I became aware of an extra pressure against me: a large, hard ridge that thrust out—and indeed filled—the front of his trousers.

That is his male organ
, I realized.
That is what it does when he becomes aroused.

The knowledge made my own organs ache, some need or instinct driving me to press my perspiring thighs together.

Mr. Call’s hazel eyes darkened. “Shall I kiss you again?”

Again I nodded, my tongue unthinkingly curling out to wet my upper lip.

“Vixen,” he breathed and crashed his mouth over mine.

I moaned at the passion of this new assault, not understanding he’d unleashed but a portion of his supply.

“Use your tongue as I use mine,” he ordered, harsh as sandpaper.

I did my best to obey him. My inexperience seemed not to bother him. He growled and lifted me off my feet, hitching up my weight so that my head was now slightly above his. I hung in his hold and kissed him open-mouthed, all my good breeding forgotten. The fingers of his left hand drove into my pinned-up hair, his palm steadying my head for his onslaught. His right hand wrapped my bottom, his fingers tightening on its curves. Extraordinary though these actions were, they weren’t his most indecent. That honor belonged to the carnal rubbing of his hips against mine.

The ridge I’d noticed earlier enlarged more.

“Jesus,” he swore—as if he couldn’t bear the friction or perhaps couldn’t get enough of it.

The latter proved to be the case. He turned, the decisiveness of the movement taking me by surprise. Suddenly my spine pressed one side of the marble mantle, his weight pinning me to it. Though my gown was narrow and bolstered by under-layers, his bunched thigh muscle parted mine.

I cried out at the contact between his leg and my aching core. Even muffled, the sensation was delicious, as if the longing inside me had at last found its cure. Mr. Call ground his pelvis hard against me, his face dropping to the crook between my neck and shoulder.