No Ordinary Mistress (Entangled Scandalous) (3 page)

“Yes, yes, this one will do nicely.” Madam Dupree clicked her tongue. “Marie, bring over the dresses.” She turned back to Emma. “I brought a few that were already made, and I can custom fit them to you so you have something to wear while you wait on the other dresses.”

The assistant brought over three dresses, all perfectly pretty and fashionable, but certainly not what Emma would pick out herself.

“Acceptable to you?” the
modiste
asked.

Emma nodded.

“Let us begin,” she said. She clapped her hands, and the other women went into motion. They grabbed Emma up from her chair and withdrew measuring tapes. The following several hours passed by in a blur of measuring and gowns being held up against her. It was unacceptable if they deemed the color wrong for her skin. Madam Dupree made Emma her personal project for the day. She would be the most glamorous mistress in all of London.

Emma wondered what all of this was costing Remy, but she didn’t dare ask. He deserved the hit to his pockets after the turmoil he caused her. She winced as one of the assistants poked her with a pin, but she said nothing. Madam Dupree seemed as if she might have a temper, and Emma didn’t want to do anything to cause one of the girls to get dismissed.

Madam Dupree rattled off a list of items, and her assistant, Marie, diligently wrote them down. They acted as if she would require an entirely new wardrobe. Of course they didn’t know she wasn’t actually Remy’s mistress, that this was nothing more than a temporary charade.

“You should not be hiding all your lovely curves under those frocks. I can see why you caught Lord Westbridge’s attention. He is most generous to his mistresses, too; he shall take excellent care of you,” Madam Dupree said.

His mistresses
. Meaning he’d had more than one. And this woman had clothed them. It was on her tongue to ask questions about that. How many had there been? Were they pretty? How long did he keep them? But those were foolish questions that had no place in her current situation. Gracious, this line of thinking should be reserved for jealous wives, not professional spies.

Emma well knew she had a body that men desired,
the body of a courtesan
her mother had told her repeatedly.
You are blessed
, she’d say,
use your assets, and men will always take care of you
. But Emma hadn’t wanted to live her life as her mother had. She’d wanted to make her own way, take care of herself, and she was doing precisely that. Therefore, she had spent much of her adult life attempting to hide her body, to keep herself unnoticed. She had inherited her voluptuous curves from her mother. She had convinced herself it was important to hide her attributes because she needed to blend into the scenery, not truly be seen. It was what made her a good spy. Deep down, though, she knew that if she allowed herself to embrace her figure that soon after, she’d embrace the type of passionate lifestyle her mother had led. Moving from one man to the next, always searching for a wealthier protector, a more handsome lover. Her mother had never been settled, never satisfied, and she’d died alone and unhappy. Emma had never wanted to be that, the kind of woman who had to rely on men to care for her, the kind of woman who paid for said care with carnal deeds.

Yet, here she was, getting measured for the wardrobe of a mistress.

…

Remy listened to Harrison drone on about never-ending paperwork he had to submit to the Prime Minister. All he knew was that they needed to get to Pennington Hall to find that damn journal. Once they found Comfry’s murderer, then Remy would know Emma was safe. Until that moment, he’d not let her out of his protection. All the more reason to find the journal as quickly as possible. The only problem was they couldn’t simply drive out to Pennington Hall and break in, especially not this weekend, which happened to be the weekend Lord Hixby hosted his annual tribute to debauchery.

Lord Hixby was known for his degenerate ways and licentious behavior, but once a year, he hosted a house party that pushed the limits of even his loose morals. And his wife would help him plan the party. Needless to say, invitations were highly coveted among the male members of the ton, which meant the entire damn country would be swarming with young bucks. Remy and Emma wouldn’t be able to ride through town without someone recognizing him. Fortunately, the party provided the perfect ruse for him to be in the country.

Unfortunately, he would have to bring Emma with him and subject her to the spectacle that was Lord Hixby’s house party. The private party was on the outskirts of London, not too far from Pennington. The event would serve as their cover. He knew that Emma, despite her experience in Paris and wherever else, was probably not prepared for such public displays of affection. His hands tensed into fists, and anger settled in his stomach like soured milk as he thought of her seducing the Comte, with his beefy hands and rounded belly. Remy had played the images over in his mind again and again since Paris, always thinking about that bastard’s hands on Emma’s perfect body.

There was a subtle knock on the door.

“Gentlemen, I’d like to present Miss Emma Masterson,” Madam Dupree said, and then stepped aside.

The creature that entered the room was not the same one he’d left in his parlor. Instead of the dark wool dresses he’d seen her in, Emma now wore a pale pink confection that accented her curves instead of hiding them. She had briefly dressed like this, though not quite so revealing, on their assignment in Paris. Of course that had been France and the fashions slightly different. And no matter what her clothes, Emma had a way about her, a no-nonsense way that proclaimed she was a lady of means, a lady with purpose. Even her walk was intentional, not the slow float that most ladies favored. But this dress, this dress was everything that was right about femininity. The soft color heightened the natural pink of Emma’s lips and cheeks. The décolletage revealed her perfectly plump breasts, and he had to keep himself from staring to see if it was his imagination, or if he could actually see the color of her areolas peeking above the neckline.

“That is more appropriate for my mistress,” he said, coming to his feet. He walked around her in a circle, taking in the entire sight of her, knowing full well that his perusal of her would irritate her. He didn’t know if he did it for that reason or because he wanted to take his time and memorize every detail of her, because now that she was back in his sight, he knew he’d be damned reluctant to see her go again.

She cocked her head in his direction. “I actually don’t require your approval,” she said tightly.

“Regardless, you’ve got it, sweetheart.”

Her eyes flared.

He chuckled. “I’d love to see that passion, that fire, put to something more pleasurable and productive,” he whispered to her.

Emma sucked in her breath but said nothing in response.

He turned to Madam Dupree and gathered the woman’s hands in his. “Marvelous job, as usual. And you have, on order, everything else the lady requires?”

“Yes, of course, My Lord. She has three dresses now, and the rest of the pieces shall be delivered by the end of the week. We’ll put a rush on everything.”

“Thank you.” Remy nodded over the woman’s hands, and she cooed delightfully. “I shall make certain my solicitor pays you for expediting everything.”

With that, the
modiste
and her assistants left the room, and Remy was left alone with Emma and Harrison.

“Well, it looks as if the two of you are ready for your outing,” Harrison said. “Emma, you must trust Remy, he will ensure your safety. I have other matters to attend to before it gets too late in the day.”

She nodded but said nothing. She stood there with her arms wrapped around herself. The stance was closed, unwelcoming, yet Remy felt quite invited to stare at her ample breasts. He forced himself to look away.

“Despite our differences, we know how to work together,” he told Harrison. “See you in a few days, and hopefully, by then we’ll know who killed Comfry.”

“Very good.” Harrison nodded to Emma, then left the room.

When they were alone, Emma turned to him, her eyes ablaze. “I don’t need your protection.”

“If you didn’t need protection then you wouldn’t be here with me.”

He took a step closer.

A step too close.

She could feel warmth radiating off his lean, muscular body. From this close, she could see the gold ring that circled his pupils and then faded into the mossy green of his irises. She sucked in a breath. “There is truly no point in arguing. The two of us shall never agree on anything.”

“I doubt very much that is true.” He gave her a crooked grin she knew had probably melted hundreds of hearts across London. But she was no debutante. She was a trained spy for the royal crown.
He
was merely another assignment.

He grabbed her wrists, his hands encircling her arms as if she were no bigger than a girl.

“Emma, you mustn’t flinch when I touch you.” He held onto her, his warm gaze slid over her body, taking in every inch of her.

She stood still.

“People are to believe you are my mistress. No one will believe any such thing at the moment.”

He was right; she knew that. She wasn’t afraid of him touching her when they were at the party. “When we are there, I shall be fine. We lived in the same house together in Paris. I can certainly pretend not to be repulsed by your touch when I need to.”

“Sharing living quarters isn’t the same as being intimate,” he said. “We were not assigned to be lovers before, as we are now.”

They might not have been assigned as lovers before, but she knew that had they continued working together in that small house, it would have happened. He’d never asked, but the tension existed between them, every time they’d been together. Every simple touch was electric, every glance heated. Damned if that attraction was still here, caught between them, pulling her to him despite the fact that he reminded her of everything she didn’t want to be.

“Right now, we are alone, so there is no reason for you to be this close to me.”

“Ah, but there is.” He grabbed her waist and pulled her body tight against his. He looked down into her eyes, and her thoughts swam incoherently through her mind. Good heavens, he was dashing and so roguish. She should push her way out of his arms, but damned if she wasn’t curious as to what he would do next.

One of his eyebrows cocked, and then he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers. It was a gentle kiss, sweet, romantic, and her eyes fluttered closed. His lips were softer than she recalled, not that she’d spent any time remembering what his lips had felt like or whether they’d been soft or otherwise. But then something changed in his demeanor, and he deepened the kiss. His tongue slid seductively across her closed mouth, teasing, beckoning, and she complied, parting her lips. In an instant, the kiss switched from something sweet and pleasant to something so passionate she lost her breath.

His tongue swept into her mouth, slid against hers seductively, and she, against all her better judgment, melted against him and kissed him back. In that moment, they were back in Paris with a single kiss that seemed to promise more, yet ultimately had meant nothing. And damned if she didn’t want more, then and now.

These kisses were reserved for the passionate people, the lovers who crept into darkened corners because they couldn’t endure one more moment apart, one more moment without touching one another. His fingers crept up into her hair without disturbing the artful coiffure. He was no novice when it came to embracing a woman while keeping her appearance from looking ruffled.

She clung to his shoulders. Her breasts tightened, her breathing shortened, and tingles of desire traveled from her belly to the apex of her thighs. Good heavens, did he intend to seduce her fully, make reality of their charade, and have her become his mistress in every sense of the word?

It was that thought that brought her to her senses. She pushed at his chest and stepped away from him. Her hand touched her mouth, and she frowned.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

He grinned, completely unaffected by her anger and their kiss, though she still shook on the inside. “Now you will not look so untouched by me. We need to appear as if we’ve been intimate. That kiss will make it easier.” He turned as if to leave. “Shall we? We have a ways to drive to get to the Foxtail Estates.”

“That’s a ridiculous name for a home.” She said nothing else as they made their way to the carriage and she crawled inside the plush space.

“You didn’t appear to be quite so offended when you were in my arms,” he said once the carriage lurched forward.

“I told you I knew how to play the part.” Let him believe she was pretending just as he was. Let him believe that she cared not a whit about him. She couldn’t very well admit to the truth of the matter, that his mere nearness had her so flustered she could scarcely breathe.

“Indeed,” he said.

But she could tell from his tone he didn’t quite believe her.

It mattered not. Kissing Remy would not happen again. Having to work closely with him would be a challenge alone without further complicating things with her unwanted awareness of him.

Besides, his kiss had made his point; she needed to make certain she appeared the way any other mistress would. She’d been around men enough to know how to behave accordingly. But damned if that wouldn’t take all her energy, and then she might not be able to focus on the investigation. As soon as they found that journal and solved Comfry’s murder, she could go back to simply being Emma Masterson, perhaps get another assignment as a governess, and stop wearing dresses that made her feel as if her bosom was completely bared.