Mistress by Midnight (7 page)

What an odd household she lived in. So many languages, so many skin colors. Martine helped her undress and she dismissed her for the night. She had no idea when Con would turn up, but inserted one of the vinegar-soaked sponges she had brought with her to London. There was a limited supply. She had not expected to find herself installed as Con’s mistress, although she had been prepared for one night in his arms. She would have to ask Nadia to help her with further preventative measures.

Laurette had donned the most modest of the nightgowns folded into her drawer, but modest was a relative term. The garment was a sheer cap-sleeved violet-blue silk, scooped low. The matching robe was frivolously pointless, as it was cut even lower in front and tied with a grosgrain ribbon, easily untied. Con would have her out of it all in seconds flat.

She had time this afternoon to review their contract. Laurette knew the document itself was worthless. It had not been witnessed, and could, if it came to it, prove to be signed under coercion. Blackmail was such an ugly word, but Laurette had been its victim before. Threats from Con’s uncle and his father-in-law had kept her silent and her family fed. She doubted Con would use her shaky signature to expose her to the world, but she could not be sure. He had changed in the dozen years they’d been apart. She wasn’t sure if she knew him at all.

Sitting at her dressing table, she picked up a silver-backed brush and ran it through her hair. She saw Con in the mirror before she ever heard him enter. He had removed his boots somewhere and was barefoot on the golden carpet.

She willed herself to be cool. “Good evening, my lord.”

“Laurette.”

His voice was raspy, as though he had spoken to no one all day. Laurette wondered how he had spent his day now that
his plans for her had come to fruition. He needn’t dwell on ruining her feckless brother any longer—that must free up the hours. It was clear how he would spend his night—he was already untying his cravat.

“I trust your accommodations are satisfactory?”

“Everything is very nice.”

Con made a face at her bland choice of words. Too bad. She was not going to sing the praises of her gilded cage.

“Here. Let me.”

Con was behind her, still in his shirt and breeches. He took the hairbrush from her hand. She leaned back as he drew it through her waves. An involuntary sigh escaped her. The bristles of the brush caressed her scalp as one large warm hand rested on her shoulder.

There was silence in the room save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth Martine had lit. Although it was spring, it seemed Con was always cold. Laurette had been overwarm all last night, and it was not due solely to the searing heat of Con’s passion. Nadia had explained on the tour of the house that the marquess insisted upon a fire in all the rooms of his townhouse. In this house, Laurette was to do as she pleased during the day, but her bedchamber would be prepared for Con’s comfort at night.

She met his eyes in the mirror. They were black with need. Odd how the nakedness of his desire stirred her fury. Laurette should be gratified he still found her attractive after all these years, but instead she was resentful. Why couldn’t he find some other woman to torment? He was free now, and they never would be able to mend the rift between them. He should find some innocent girl fresh from the schoolroom to lighten his heart.

A girl like she used to be.

She watched his hand leave her shoulder and dip into the bodice of her gown, palming her left breast and brushing her nipple with his roughened thumb. He continued to watch her
face for signs of her arousal, but Laurette was determined to disappoint him. She had been foolish last night, foolish several times, but she had a tighter rein upon her senses now.

He placed the brush back on the dressing table and sought her other breast. Laurette closed her eyes as she felt the pressure of his fingertips.

“No. Watch me. Watch us.”

He had freed her breasts from the twilight silk, lifting them, peaking her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He rolled his finger on the tips, turning her nipples wine-dark. He bent, his breath hot against her throat, and bit her, never stopping the caressing of her breasts.

“Attempting vampirism, my lord?”

Con chuckled. “I shall taste every inch of you tonight. Last night, I was far too hasty.”

It was true. He had fallen upon her like a starved man, and she, God help her, had been just as greedy. She watched as he pulled the ribbon on the robe and pushed down both garments, until she was exposed from the waist up, her arms bound against her. Despite the warmth of the room, a wave of gooseflesh warred with her freckles. She held her hands tight in her lap as he traced a pattern into her skin with a fingertip.

“Rise.” There was a pause. “Please.” He must have heard how imperious he sounded.

Laurette stumbled up from the bench, her knees traitorously weak. He tugged the silk away until she stood in a purple puddle.

“Turn so I may see you.”

He expelled a breath, and Laurette fought the urge to cover herself. His eyes were fastened on her perfumed, pink-skinned mound. His hand cupped her and she was branded by his heat.

“I trust this did not cause you any discomfort?”

Laurette shook her head, unable to speak. Once she had
been so at ease with him, had been brazen enough to tear her clothes off in the sunshine. Now this shadowed room was still not dark enough to conceal her hesitation.

“What are you thinking, Laurie?”

“You have gotten what you wanted.”

“Have I?” He slipped a long finger into her passage and drew her closer. There had been no resistance. She was shamefully wet for him. Her nipples grazed against the fine linen of his shirt. She steadied herself, putting her hands on his shoulders.

He kissed her, his finger meanwhile working a slow, slippery glide inside her. His thumb left the surface of her newly-shorn skin and slid down to her swollen clitoris. She buckled but he held her fast against him, his left hand splayed across her back. She could feel his touch everywhere, little licks of fire on his tongue, his palm, his fingers. Even the silk at her feet added to the sensation. She had meant not to kiss him back, not make it easy for him, not fist the cambric of his shirt, not cry into his mouth as the first rapturous wave stiffened her spine and loosened her tears. She would never last six months with him. And worse, when the six months were up, how could she last the rest of her life without him?

She shook in his arms as he held her. “Don’t cry. I cannot bear to see you unhappy.” He kissed the top of her head as though she were a child, picked her up, and carried her to the golden bed. She kept her eyes shut as he moved about the room. When she opened them, he was gone.

Con cursed his boots in the hallway. What he’d give for a pair of sandals to slip on so he might disappear into the night. He stuffed his tie in his pocket and shrugged into his coat, closing the blue door behind him with a soft thud. All along the short street, houses were alight with candles and muffled laughter. Other men were enjoying the perfumed mystery of their mistresses, while he strode along with a raging
hard-on and his walking stick at the ready. He had dismissed his driver, planning to spend the night in Laurette’s arms, so was destined to walk home if he could not summon a hack.

It was not so very late. He had delayed going to her as long as he could. She had not been asleep, after all, just brushing her glorious gilt hair. If only he’d come an hour or two later, he might have slipped into her from behind as she was curled up in her bed. It might have seemed a dream.

Instead, he had made her cry.

He’d been a fool to think the finery of her new household could make up for the dozen years they had lost. But she had looked undeniably exquisite in the golden room.

As exquisite as their first time.

Every word of good-bye he had prepared himself to say to her vanished. Sunlight filtered through the leaves onto Laurette’s pale skin so she gleamed like polished ivory. Her eyes were huge, imploring. They had been careful so far, bringing each other to welcome madness, but Con had dreamed of sinking within her and losing himself for years. His nights at university had not been spent with maids or whores, but in his solitary bed, his hand working feverishly as he imagined Laurette beneath him. He watched her fingers play with the pink ribbon at the end of her pigtail. When her wavy hair cascaded down her back, he reached for her face.

She turned to kiss his palm. He brushed the tears away and set his mouth to hers. Her hands tugged at the fabric of his shirt, the placket of his breeches. He had no time to strip himself bare but fell back with her on the quilt, stroking down her body to her center. She was drenched for him. He was undeniably hard for her. He tucked her under him and plunged into her heat, catching her sob with a kiss.

He was clumsy. Selfish. But the barrier seemed easily broken. He stilled with difficulty so she could adjust to the size of him, but he thought he would never adjust to the glory of
her. She was hot and tight around him, so tight. He had never felt such exquisite agony. He curbed his need to spill instantly, placing a hand between them to her apex. He thought of the taste of her there, a mistake, as he felt himself lose control. He kissed her, their tongues dancing in concert with his fingers. She raised her hips and he thrust deeper.

He couldn’t last, awkward ox that he was. He wanted to make the first time good for her. It had to be their last; he couldn’t allow her to hope for a future with him. And he was robbing her of hers. Bad enough they’d spent the past year wrapped in a haze of lust. He’d now taken her virginity. There would be consequences. There could even be a child….

He felt his seed begin to erupt and tried mightily to withdraw from her honeyed walls. Her long white legs were locked around him as she lifted her body in response, trapping him within. Her inner spasms imprinted their joy along his shaft as he emptied himself in a series of mindless spurts. He was swept clean of any thought but the purity of Laurette, her thousand freckles, the smile on her well-kissed lips, the gilt of her eyelashes as they fluttered on her flushed cheeks. He buried his face in her amber hair and breathed roses. The press of his shirt button on her bare breast had left an imperfect circle and he sealed the mark with his tongue. She moaned beneath him as he slipped reluctantly away.

He buttoned himself, wrestled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the evidence of their lovemaking from Laurette’s glistening cleft. There wasn’t so much blood as he’d feared. She lay still as he stroked her tenderly.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said, his voice tight. He couldn’t promise it would be better next time. There could not be a next time.

“It was perfect.”

“Liar.”

“I did not please you?” She looked up at him, hesitant. She resembled a chastened child, just missing the braids he used to tease.

He had used her like an untried youth, he thought in disgust. Which he was, but now he had injured her feelings as well.

“You are perfect. I will always love you. Thank you for this gift.” He brought her up to him and kissed her forehead.

Laurette reached for her shift. “I have been trying to give it to you for ages.” For a moment she disappeared under the wrinkled muslin. “And you have given me a present, too. I am a woman now, Con!” she cried, leaping up off the blanket and spinning in her bare feet in the grass, “Do I look different? Can you tell?” She bent over him, her blue eyes dancing, her breasts brushing against him.

He closed his eyes to the blaze of her innocence. He felt his cock shift and stiffen. The church bells rang in the distance. Service had not even started yet.

They had an hour. Con, who had meant to be honorable and honest, cupped both her covered breasts. Her pink nipples peaked under the thin fabric.

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “Perhaps the first time didn’t take, Laurie. You look much the same.”

She fell to her knees in front of him. “We will do better this time.”

“I will do better.” He tore at his clothes, kicking off his boots. He would touch her everywhere, so her skin would remember him when they parted. But he would withdraw before he climaxed. He could do that much at least.

But he had not. Con’s anger at himself for the past and the present pushed his steps, and he was home before Aram’s son Nicolas could open the front door.

“My lord, we did not expect you back tonight.”

“Change of plans. Go on to bed, Nico. Or wherever you want.” Nico was engaging in a mild flirtation with a parlormaid next door. Now that his parents were not on the property to oversee his courtship, the boy had a new swagger to his step. Con only hoped the girl would not lose her position.
He already had quite enough of Aram’s dependents on his hands.

He was too restless for bed, and could not go out again to face anyone at his club. Con belonged simply because his grandfather had. He had never sought to be part of London society, but he had a child—children—to think of now. Most of the men he knew had seen and done nothing to merit their blithe confidence.

He entered his library and poured himself a brandy, even after the year home still not entirely acclimated to its taste. As a youth, he’d been too poor to drink it; as a young man travelling where liquor was forbidden, he had not missed it. As a peer of the realm, it was nearly his duty to imbibe. It was the only thing that had gotten him through his interview last night with Laurette. When he touched the cut glass of the decanter, he had really wanted to touch her.

He settled himself in his plush leather chair, pulling open the bottom drawer of his desk. Ironic that as a student he’d been loath to write anything at all, and now he was in the middle of his memoirs detailing the ten years he’d spent abroad. He wrote not for himself but for his son, to whom he owed an explanation for having been absent during his young life. Although Con had written faithfully to the child even when pen and paper were hard to come by and delivery was uncertain at best, his letters were not enough. He was still a stranger to James and James was an enigma to him.