Mistress by Midnight (9 page)

Con had been her first and only lover. Anything she’d attempted in her lonely spinster’s bed to recapture their summer had been a pale imitation at best. This man stood before her now, dark and distant, although they were separated by the mere length of his arms. She had no idea what was going through his mind apart from the fact his buff breeches revealed a rampant erection. But a man didn’t have to think to feel lust. Any naked woman clad in silk stockings might produce the same effect.

Con expelled a breath. “It’s your turn to undress me.”

Laurette nodded. She went directly for the emerald pin in his cravat, tugging it out of the starched fabric with some dif
ficulty. It was heavy in her hand. “This is rather vulgar for daylight, isn’t it, my lord?”

“They expect it of me. The Mad Marquess, you know. You should see the ruby.” Con’s face twisted in a smile. “I am allowed eccentricity.”

“You have grown like your grandfather.” Laurette placed the stickpin on her dressing table. How odd that she did not feel self-conscious walking about bare as a baby, or nearly so.

“I suppose I have, save I’ve learned to make money rather than just spend it.” He started to pull the tie from his throat but she stopped him.

“I am to undress you, remember?”

“Get on with it, then.”

She looked up at him. “Am I going too slowly?” She touched a silver button on his waistcoat with the tip of one finger.

“Yes, damn it.”

He’d growled at her. Interesting. She removed the length of stock, wrapping the fabric around one hand, then laid it next to his emerald.

His jacket was next, molded to his muscular torso. She un-peeled it and padded on her stocking feet over to a chair, draping it neatly on the back. Con clenched his jaw, looking as if he wanted her to toss each garment to kingdom come, but said nothing.

Beautiful silver buttons, each embossed with the Conover crest. They were worth something, too. She bent down and pushed them through the buttonholes, watching as Con’s manhood twitched below.

He had much less mastery of himself today than he did when she had so ignominiously fallen on her bottom removing his boots. That slow torture with his fingertip must have nearly killed him. As it had almost killed her. She licked her lips and heard him groan.

“Enough.” He pushed her away and tore off the rest of his clothes, kicking off his boots with near violence. His vest, his
shirt, his breeches, his boots were now strewn around the room. She tried to pick up his billowing white linen shirt from the floor and was rewarded by a smart tap to her backside.

“Leave it. Come to bed.”

Laurette rubbed her bottom. “You are spanking me?”

“I shall do worse, unless—”

He must have heard how he sounded, seen Laurette’s shock at his words and actions.

He enveloped her in his arms. “Forgive me, Laurie. I would never hurt you,” he whispered. She rested against his chest, puzzled at the change in his mood. His hands fumbled with her hairpins and she felt the mass of amber fall down her back.

No. He would never raise a hand to her. His hurt was of a different nature, and one she had been battering against for a dozen years. But Con had been as much a victim as she, she supposed.

She shook her head, impatient with herself. It was time to stop making excuses for him. He had married and fathered a child, then left to indulge his senses in all manner of foreign debauchment. She had seen the brass hookah in his bedchamber, after all. Whether he used flavored tobacco or hashish, it was still a disturbing habit. Even an English gentleman’s cheroot was a nasty thing to her way of thinking.

She sat at the edge of the bed, untied the garter and turned her stocking down with deliberate precision. She imagined she could hear Con’s heart thudding in his chest as he stood naked just inches from her. She took her time with the other leg, enjoying his apparent torture. But then, he resorted to his earlier roughness. Pushing her backward on the bed, he covered her with his weight, his kiss feral and demanding, his hands whirling through her hair and over her skin, his thumb grazing her nipples, his cock with one abrupt thrust embedded within her. It wasn’t rape. Her body had been ready from
the moment he entered the garden, even if her mind had not been.

But she had inserted no sponge. There had been no time. She tried to scramble back but he held her in an iron grip, gloving himself within her so completely that she soon ceased thinking of consequences, and only felt each quicksilver connection between their flesh. He pushed deeper, she rose to meet him, tumbling together atop the fine linens in a sensual dance that made her dizzy. At the start, it was a country dance with little finesse but much enthusiasm. But he had found his rhythm, and she followed where he led.

Con had taught her to dance, had been her first partner. In everything. She had given him her heart as a child and he still held it. She opened her eyes to watch Con’s exquisitely agonized face over her. His teeth bit into the fullness of his lower lip, his eyes crinkled shut, his brow beaded with drops of perspiration. His wild dark hair hung damp at his shoulders. His arms were corded with muscle and braced on either side of her. The cross tattoo leaped before her eyes. Con was
working.
She was the center of all his attention and glad of it.

He owned her. Bought her for ten thousand pounds. She should be fighting him off, but couldn’t. He possessed her body without the house on Jane Street or the clothes or the servants. She had given up trying to keep him at bay. A time would come when their arrangement was over, so she’d best let him have his way. It was as good for her as it was for him. Maybe better. She’d lived in solitary confinement. While he’d spent his seed all across Europe and Asia like some pagan god, she was on her knees praying for redemption. Release. But she might as well have her own tattoo of
Conover
inked upon her breast.

She gazed down her body where they joined. They were waltzing now, his thick cock gliding out of her slowly and just as slowly reentering. She ached when he withdrew, but the anticipation of his return caused her skin to prickle.

Laurette breathed in the air around them, vestiges of sex
and sweat, his sandalwood cologne, her rosewater, the fragrant wood burning too hot in the hearth, the beeswax applied so earnestly by one of the servants, the exotic garden through the open window all blending in a heady single scent.

She was in a haze of languid sensation. It was as if she had been shut off for years in grayness, and suddenly the world was in bloom inside her, bursting through her pores and straight into Con. As if he knew, he opened his eyes and watched her as she came apart. He smiled down at her, triumphant.

But he was not done, and neither, it seemed, was she. When she thought he could not coax one more frisson of joy from her, he amazed and exhausted her, his hips grinding and rolling her to welcome oblivion. She was spinning from his dance, lightheaded, love struck. He bent to kiss her sobs away, swallow up her soul. She felt him stiffen and flood her. She couldn’t be sorry.

They lay in each other’s arms, the heat of the room and their exertions coating them in slippery sweat. Con took a corner of the sheet and wiped her face, throat and under each tender breast. Laurette stared at the mirror over the bed, wondering who the flushed and foolish wanton was who smiled back at her.

“I went blind, you know.” Con’s voice was still ragged. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Laurette looked at him in alarm. He hadn’t meant to tell her. It was old news. He and his school friend William John Bankes had traveled a hazardous, indeed deadly, journey to see the sites of ancient civilization, and he had been struck with blindness. Ophthalmia was the medical term, but whatever one called it, it was devilishly painful and could cause permanent loss of sight if he was unlucky.

Of course, Con had felt unlucky for some time. Perhaps it was his failure to fully appreciate the wonders he had seen
these past eight years that Allah decided he needed a lesson in humility. The fact that Con thought now in terms of Allah might have been an additional reason his Christian God had punished him, but Con had found it more convenient to pay lip service to the god of the people surrounding him.

William had clung to his English gentleman’s mode of dress, but Con had succumbed to the robes of the natives. With his black hair and eyes and skin tanned from hours under the scorching sun, it had not been so very difficult to assimilate. He had even grown a most ferocious mustache and beard worthy of any self-respecting bey. His appearance, and the Arabic in which he was now nearly fluent, had been useful. Any way he could avoid getting his throat slit was worth pursuing. He was one Frank who did not feel his time on earth was quite up. He planned to return to England and meet his son. If he could not see him, it would be a pity. He remembered one of the last days of his darkness, but would not bore Laurette with the story.

He lay in his tent, his man Aram alternately soaking cloths in strong tea and honey to combat the infection. Bankes had suffered the same affliction before Con had joined him in his journey, and had made a complete recovery, taking notes and sketching the magnificent ruins in meticulous detail. Con was hopeful he would do the same. He was expected to be a guide of sorts in the Holy Land at the end of Bankes’ expedition, having landed there early in his own exile. There had been too many idle Englishmen in southern Europe when he first ran away, and then the forces of war had made life distinctly uncomfortable. Con had left behind his own idleness and served England in a very unofficial capacity. For a boy who had difficulty declining Latin verbs, he suddenly discovered he had a facility for spoken languages and the ability to blend in to indigenous populations. He was not a blond, blue-eyed Englishman afraid to get dirty or be devious.

But he found he had a distaste for death. His trek east had been meant to find some meaning in his life, some peace, but
he could not say that he had been successful except under the influence of a bubbling hookah.

He knew some might wonder about his manhood. His association with William would raise some knowing eyebrows in Britain, although William was being most discreet in lands where his bisexuality would condemn him to death. But Con had touched no woman—or man—since that last day with Laurette, despite frequent opportunities. His celibacy had not prevented him from being an observer, however, and he was privy now to all manner of ways humans intoxicated themselves with desire.

He heard a rustling and the thud of boots on the hard-packed mud. Con pulled off the linen strips over his eyes and sat up.

“Don’t disturb yourself. It is only I.”

Con heard William’s drawling voice and smiled. “Have you come to feed me roasted locusts again?”

“Lord, no! Although I’ve had worse. Some think they taste like shrimp. I’ll not forget the first time I saw them swarm, like a storm of black snow. I wish you had come with us today. I stood on the roof of the most magnificent temple. Climbed all the way to the top.”

“Buried in sand, was it? Did Finati give you a leg up, or did you hop?”

William snorted. “Sharp as ever. Wish we’d had time to do a bit of digging, but it’s time to move on. We’ll make for the boat tomorrow. Will you be up to it?”

“I suppose I’ll have to be. Just lash me to the camel.”

“We’ll stay at the convent in Cairo until you’re well again.”

“If I ever am.” Con disliked the complaint in his voice, but his hours of solitude in camp while the party explored had given him too much time to feel sorry for himself.

“It could be worse—you could be covered with buboes. Although they might be an improvement over the beard. You are quite horrifying, you know.”

Con laughed. “It is just that you are so pretty.” He ran a
hand through his beard, wondering if Laurette would even recognize him. Whether he would recognize himself in the mirror, should his sight be restored.

Laurette still looked stricken. But he could see her, praise Allah, Jesus and Venus. “What happened?”

Con flipped on his back and held her hand. He watched their reflection above in the mirror on the ceiling. They looked as if they were the original sinners, Adam and Eve, fresh from a romp in the Garden. But somewhere the serpent was sure to be lurking.

“Ophthalmia. I was in Egypt with William. It’s quite a common disease there, but some never recover. I got lucky.”

“Indeed. I imagine you had more than your share of adventures.”

Con shrugged. “I had to make something of my life.” He turned to her. “Be
useful,
if you will. I even dabbled a bit for King and country until I got shot.”

“What?”

“It was when I first ran off. To Spain first, and then Portugal.”

“You were in the army?”

“Not officially. William was there and knew Wellington. One thing led to another.”

“I see,” said Laurette, who looked as if she didn’t see at all.

“It wasn’t for very long. Just long enough.” He rubbed a shoulder. The puckering beneath his tattoo reminded him of those times on a daily basis. “It’s just a scratch. I’m no hero, believe me.”

“You should tell James,” she blurted. She had a point—it might go some way explaining to his son why he had deserted him.

Con laughed. “He wouldn’t stay in the room long enough to listen.”

“Then write.”

“You have found me out. I’m actually writing a book for him.”

Laurette sat up, covering herself with the damp sheet. “A book! You?”

“Now who thinks who is stupid?”

“Who thinks
whom,”
Laurette corrected.

“I’m not sure about that. We shall have to find a grammarian to settle the issue.” He teased her back with a fingertip.

“But you were never bookish.”

“True. The tutors my uncle hired saw to that,” Con said, kissing the pulse at her wrist.

For a second Con thought Laurette was softening, and then the serpent slithered into the Garden.
Stop now,
the serpent warned her.
He is trying to charm you again as he did when he first sucked a thorn out of your finger when you were seven. You are seven no longer, my girl, you’re not even seven and twenty.