My Fair Mistress (6 page)

R
AFE CLICKED OPEN the engraved cover of his gold pocket watch and checked the time.

Ten minutes to one.

He snapped the watch closed again and tucked it into his vest pocket, then settled back on the drawing room sofa to wait, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

He tossed an idle glance around the room, eyeing the red brocade draperies with distaste. It’s what came, he supposed, of using acquired properties, such as this house, for his own purposes. If he were going to keep the place, he would make some changes to the decor, such as replacing several of the older, heavier pieces of furniture with lighter, more modern ones. But for now, the house was comfortable and well suited to his immediate needs.

Assuming he continued to have such needs, he thought ruefully.

He’d give Lady Hawthorne to the top of the hour as agreed, and perhaps ten minutes more. After that, he’d ride home and begin preparations for collecting the young earl’s debt.

It was growing ever more obvious that Lord Allerton’s sister wasn’t going to show. And to be perfectly honest, he hadn’t really expected she would. Despite all her pleas and protestations on behalf of her sibling, she’d obviously had second thoughts concerning the bargain she’d struck.

And justifiably so.

Her scapegrace brother had plunged himself deep into the abyss, and by rights, he ought to be the one forced to claw his way out. A tragedy, though, that the earl would need to put Davies Manor on the auction block.

The estate was a fine property with a grand house, a thriving tenantry, and two hundred acres of prime farmland situated in the heart of the Kent countryside. Perhaps he would bid on it himself, Rafe considered. With a trustworthy manager to tend to the day-to-day details, the estate had the potential to generate a nice, steady income. If that had not been the case, he would never have agreed to extend financing to Allerton in the first place. Truly, Julianna Hawthorne was doing him a favor by reneging on their agreement.

So why do I feel so vastly disappointed
?

He sighed, suddenly annoyed by the desire humming in his blood, merely the notion of having Lady Hawthorne in his bed enough to bring him to a state of partial arousal. Normally, he wasn’t the sort of man to let lust cloud his mind, but where this particular lady was concerned, there was no fathoming his reactions. The logical, reasonable part of him still marveled that he’d proposed such a bargain with her at all. The animal part of him cheered, howling now at the likely prospect of being denied.

In all probability, he knew he would never see her again. Over the years he’d indulged in a couple of liaisons with aristocratic ladies, each of whom had been eager to add an element of verve and excitement to her otherwise tedious life. As a rule, though, he tended to steer clear of such associations, since they never ended well. As for virtuous widows like Lady Hawthorne…well, ladies like her were very selective when taking lovers, and they certainly never chose men from outside their own narrow social circle.

How ironic, then, to know his blood was every bit as blue as her own! But matters like legitimacy made all the difference in the world. He should know. He’d spent his entire life battling the slurs and slights of illegitimacy because his parents had dared to love outside the bounds of marriage.

His father, a viscount from the the Home Counties, had already been a married man when he’d met Charlotte Pendragon, the daughter of a poor clergyman who ministered to a small rural parish. The young viscount, miserable in his arranged marriage, had come north to visit a friend and to do some hunting. He’d been riding home through an icy fall rain when he’d come upon a bedraggled girl struggling to make her way. He’d stopped, lifted her up onto his horse, wrapped her in his warm coat, and taken her home.

Over cups of hot tea, huddled under blankets in front of a roaring fire, the two of them had fallen in love. Though they knew it was wrong, though they tried to fight their feelings, they’d continued to meet, their love too strong to be denied. And when Miss Pendragon—a good girl from a good family—found herself enceinte, the viscount set her up in a house in the neighboring county, vowing to care for her and their child for all the rest of their days.

He was that child, Rafe thought, his father’s firstborn son, who could never openly be acknowledged no matter how beloved he might have been. His upbringing, his education, his manners—none of it mattered, only the circumstances of his birth and the side of the blanket on which he’d been born.

He wondered what Lady Hawthorne would think if she knew. Then again, what did it matter, since her opinion of him changed nothing.

He was, and always would be, a bastard. And that’s precisely what she must think of him after receiving his disreputable offer the other day.

He checked his watch again: ten minutes past one.

Oh, well,
he reasoned with a shrug,
some fantasies are simply not meant to be.

Seconds later, a knock sounded on the door.

His eyebrows shot skyward, blood jolting through his veins with renewed anticipation. Climbing to his feet, he made his way to the entrance.

Opening the door, he discovered her on the stoop, looking small in her heavy cloak. A plain gray hood was draped over her head in such a way that all he could see were her nose and mouth and chin.

He fought an impulse to reach out, to drag her inside and into his arms. Instead he contented himself with a look.

“I’d nearly given up on you,” he murmured, the fragrant scent of her as stirring as a caress.

“I had trouble finding a hack,” she replied in a near whisper. “My coachman lingered longer than I’d anticipated.”

A raw gust of wind rushed over them, rustling her skirts and fluttering the edges of her hood. Despite the crisp sunshine, it was a cold day.

“It’s freezing. Come inside.”

She hesitated for the faintest instant, then did as he commanded. He noticed the hack driver watching them and signaled with a hand for the man to depart.

Julianna whirled as Rafe closed the door. “Was that my hack leaving? I told him to wait.”

“It’s too cold for anyone to wait today. Don’t worry, I’ll see you return home safely.” He strode closer. “Now, why don’t I take your cloak?”

She hadn’t lowered her hood, he noticed, as if loath to shed the protection of the garment. As if she still harbored doubts about her presence here with him in this house.

It was brave of her to come, he admitted. Brave and bold. And if he were any sort of gentleman he’d leave her wrapped up in her cloak, go to the coaching house for his carriage, then take her home. But he’d long ago given up any notion of being a true gentleman since it was the one thing he would never be.

Slowly, she reached up and pushed back her hood. Underneath she wore a long-brimmed bonnet with a dark lacy half veil that covered her eyes.

He couldn’t help but smile. “I see you took every precaution to conceal your identity.”

“I must,” she replied, deadly serious. “No one can ever suspect.”

“No one will,” he assured, equally serious. “This neighborhood is very quiet. There are few residents, and those there are tend to keep to themselves. It’s why I chose the place, for its pleasant, somewhat rural location—not easy to find in a bustling metropolis like London.”

The house, just south of Queens Square, was perfect. An attractive, two-story brick Georgian, it blended easily into its surroundings. The house and drive were flanked on both sides by rows of mature evergreen boxwoods and towering elm trees, their branches now bared of leaves. A high brick wall ringed the front of the two-acre property, providing a deep sense of privacy and seclusion.

He’d acquired the house only a month ago from the Marquis of Durbenham, who’d used it for exclusive parties, the kind of entertainments about which a man would rather his wife know nothing. But after getting caught en flagrante by said wife, the marquis had put the property up for sale, remarking that the old harridan had tainted the place with her invective and quite ruined his fun. Rafe could well imagine.

“Now,” he continued, stepping closer. “Let me assist you with your outer garments.”

She moved back. “I-I’ll do it, thank you.”

Hands visibly trembling, she tugged loose the bow of navy grosgrain ribbon tied beneath her chin, then pulled off her hat. Her hair gleamed, dark and sleek as sable, the clean scent of French-milled soap drifting faintly in the air. He took her bonnet and set it on a nearby marble-topped foyer table.

When he turned back, she was fumbling with the clasp on her mantle and doing a poor job of it. Crossing to her, he covered her small hands with his own much larger ones and gently stilled her movements. “Please, allow me.”

After a moment, she relented, her hands falling to her sides, her eyes averted.

Smoothly, efficiently, he unfastened the small, filigreed gold and pearl clasp at her throat but made no move to slide the garment from her shoulders. Drawing a finger over her satiny cheek, he watched her eyelids fall shut and her lips tremble. Was she truly prepared to take this scheme through to its conclusion? Would she be grateful, even relieved, if he offered her one last opportunity to escape?

He sighed. “Are you certain this is what you want? It’s not too late to change your mind, you know.”

Her eyes sprang open and her jawline firmed. “Please don’t toy with me. I’ve already told my brother the loan is paid. I can’t go back to him now and say I’ve lied. This…bargain between us is the only way.” She paused, a sudden glimmer of hope dawning in her expression. “Unless you’d be willing to forgive the debt.”

Rafe blinked at the suggestion.

Forgive the debt?
Impossible.

Even if he was magnanimous enough to contemplate such an action, he wasn’t that much of a fool. After all, he hadn’t earned the nickname “The Dragon” by letting people cozen him out of money—not even pretty little widows with eyes as rich and dark as fine, melted chocolate, and lips that beckoned with the sweet perfection of a newly blossomed rose. If he were inclined to act the gallant, he supposed he could allow her to walk out the door with no more than a few kisses and a gracious thank-you. But he had a reputation to maintain among his business-minded brethren, and that was one thing he could never afford to lose.

Besides, he wanted her.

Wanted her badly. So no matter what wild impulses might be swirling inside his head, there would be no foolish acts of charity in the offing today.

“No,” he said in an implacable tone. “The agreement stands. Six months as my mistress or thirty thousand pounds payable on the morrow. The choice is entirely yours. But if you choose our arrangement, acknowledge you do so willingly. Tell me you come to my bed of your own accord.”

A long silent moment passed before she drew a deep inhale and met his gaze. “I come to you of my own accord. You may take my mantle now if you like.”

Tension he hadn’t known he felt eased from his muscles, quickly replaced by a renewed simmer of desire. Reaching out, he lifted the heavy garment from her shoulders, then turned to hang it inside a closet under the staircase.

When he returned, he stopped directly in front of her, letting his gaze rove over her body in a leisurely downward sweep. She wore a long-sleeved, dark green kerseymere wool dress, conservatively decorated with black ribbon stitched at the throat and cuffs. A modest garment, he was certain she’d worn it for warmth, not style. Despite its plainness, the gown did nothing to disguise her generous curves, nor hide the shape of her breasts and hips that so overtly declared her femininity. He couldn’t wait to peel her out of the thing and reveal all the glories he was sure awaited him underneath.

Her chin came up as if she could read his lascivious thoughts, as if she were waiting for him to pounce on her right there in the hall.

Tempting idea,
he thought wickedly. But he’d leave that pleasure for later when the foyer wasn’t quite so uncomfortably chilly.

Squaring her shoulders, Julianna braced herself for whatever was to come next. Not an easy task when her instincts were ringing an alarm, warning her that Rafe Pendragon was far more man than she could handle.

If she had any sense, she would run.
Now!

But she couldn’t retreat, nor could she rescind her promise to give him access to her body, to let this stranger touch her in the most personal of ways. She only hoped she had the strength of character to see it through.

Lord above,
she whimpered silently,
what have I done?

Before she had time to panic further, Pendragon reached out and lifted one of her gloved hands into his. Slowly, mesmerizingly, he began to remove the glove, tugging it free one finger at a time. Ever so gradually he slid the cloth away until her hand lay naked within his own. The move seemed an astonishingly intimate act somehow, even more so than a kiss might have been.

Linking his clear green gaze with hers, he raised her hand upward and pressed it against his cheek and jaw. Warmth spread like fire across her palm, his skin smooth and recently shaven, the plane of his jaw firm, the muscle and bone lying strong beneath.

Captured inside the moment, Julianna waited, her heart hammering, her breath a shallow draught in her lungs. It grew shallower, faster, as he turned his head and slid her hand sideways, positioning her palm so its center pressed against his lips. A gasp escaped her as he opened his mouth and drew a sleek circle on her skin using only the wet tip of his tongue. He kissed the spot, then lowered her hand, curling her fingers into a gentle fist as if to hold his touch in place. She shivered, a surge of electricity rippling over her body, her skin flushing hot, then cold, then hot again.

Mortified, that is what I ought to be,
she chastened herself. Mortified and shocked all the way to her core. Not even Basil had ever touched her in such a way, and he’d been her husband. Only she wasn’t mortified, she realized, nor was she pulling away.

I can’t refuse him,
she told herself. That’s why she allowed such an embrace. That’s why she remained still in his grasp.