An Experienced Mistress (10 page)

She frowned. “Oh, dear, no, you don’t want to do that.”

“But why not? I went to a Pre-Raphaelite exhibition and I found it...very intriguing.”

“No, that would not do at all. I read that even though they’re getting popular, they aren’t at all respectable.” She turned to one of the footmen. “Tom, come and fetch this picture and I’ll show you where to hang it.”

Mr. Creighton appeared in the doorway of the drawing room. “William, let us see the upper floor.”

Will was surprised that he didn’t just inspect on his own. He led his father up the stairs, and Stuart trailed along as well.

“Here is the master bedroom.” Will opened the door to the chamber.

“Not bad!” Stuart said. “Not bad at all.”

“A bit small,” their father said. “Now, William, I need to talk to you about the other evening.”

So this was the reason he’d wanted Will to show him upstairs: he had some complaint.

“I paid a call on Cyril Tudbury when we came into Town,” Father continued. “He says that you had dinner with them the other night?”

“Yes. He saw me at the Club and was kind enough to invite me.”

“He said they were disappointed that you left so early.”

“It wasn’t
so
early.”

“Let me be blunt,” Mr. Creighton said, as though he were in the habit of being anything else. “I believe Cyril felt you had somewhat slighted his daughter.”

“I did no such thing.” Will scowled. “Even you will allow, Father, that I am not in the habit of insulting young ladies. And good God, she’s only a child.”

“She is no child. She’s out in Society.”

His father’s familiar cold, determined air returned. It hadn’t taken long for them to get into it again. Stuart averted his eyes. His brother wouldn’t have followed them up the stairs if he’d known there was more than a house tour on the agenda.

“She is one of the richest ladies on the marriage mart,” Mr. Creighton pointed out. “And as her father is one of my closest associates, you should try not to be disagreeable.”

“What did you want me to do, propose to her?”

“Do you think you could do better?” Mr. Creighton challenged him.

“That is not the point. I barely know her.”

“The Tudburys have been friends of this family for years—”

“In all honesty, I was not under the impression that she had any particular fondness for me. And I have no intention of marrying in the near future.”

His father’s lip curled. “Is that so? And pray tell, what else would you be doing?”

Hopefully making love to his mistress until she swooned. “Whatever I wish to do,” came his more temperate reply.

“You intend to have no family? No heirs?”

Will hadn’t said that. He did imagine himself having children...someday. But not yet. Not nearly yet. Not when a marriage to a petted, proper miss, and a home life of virtuous, vacuous boredom, were the inevitable price.

“I may marry one day. But it shall not be next week, or next month.”

Father shook his head gravely. “I am only concerned about your future. You’re not a boy anymore—you’re twenty-nine years old. I was married with two sons at that age.”

Creightons always married young. Generations of his ancestors, upon reaching maturity, had immediately set to the business of making babies. No doubt with a grim air of duty and a stiff upper lip.

“Daisy Tudbury would make a pattern wife,” Father continued. “You should know better than to pass up a good opportunity.”

That’s what a young lady was? An opportunity, like the chance to invest in a railroad or a diamond mine? Not everything was a business transaction.

Mr. Tudbury had been obliging toward him. But the fact he felt no personal attraction to the lovely, wealthy, and altogether irreproachable Daisy Tudbury ought to mean something.

Not that he could hope to marry someone who excited him the way Genevieve did.

She was like fire in his veins. The more he knew about her the more intrigued he grew. And when he was away from her, his thoughts spun and veered back to her.

But she wasn’t the sort of woman one married, obviously.

“Well, I am done with talking,” Father said. “Let us see the rest of the place.”

Will tore his concentration away from Genevieve and led him to the next room.

Chapter Eight

Genevieve sat in front of her mirror brushing out her hair. Instead of the tight damask, she wore one of her usual loose white frocks. She liked to dress this way, and didn’t feel like changing tonight.

Flory hummed to herself and puttered around downstairs. The maid usually visited her sister on Tuesday nights, but apparently her sister was entertaining her husband’s relatives that week, so Flory postponed her visit. Genevieve wasn’t too disturbed by the maid’s presence. Flory excelled at minding her own business.

A thrill went through her when she heard the hooves and wheels clattering up to her cottage. She peered through lace curtains of the window. Will’s gleaming black carriage had arrived.

Who would have guessed she had such a lascivious nature? Maybe her sensuality, pent up for so many years, grew much stronger now.

But it wasn’t just that, was it? The thrill didn’t come only from the physical intimacy, but from the one with whom she shared it.

Will Creighton wasn’t at all what she expected from a wealthy young man demanding a mistress. He was intelligent, funny, and there was something about him that seemed decent and honorable.

Not that she’d let herself become too attached to him. From her miserable affair with Adam, she knew that art and love didn’t mix.

When he’d abandoned her for the next girl, she’d fallen too despondent to paint for months. To think of her upset over someone she had such a low opinion of now rankled her. But that was how affairs turned out. One lost one’s perspective. And perspective was very important to an artist.

That was the last time she’d fall in love. They’d just enjoy themselves, and that would be the end of it.

“Miss Genny?” Flory appeared at the door. “Mr. Creighton is waiting in the parlor.”

Genevieve expected that Flory would disappear into her room as promised, but instead the maid went back downstairs with her. Well, that was all right; surely she’d make herself scarce, soon enough.

Will stood when she entered the room, his hat in hand, dark wavy hair swept back from his forehead. When she’d been with him on Saturday, he hadn’t shaved for a few days. He’d started to grow a neat moustache and beard. Genevieve never liked beards on men, but now she found herself forced to reconsider her opinion.

Their eyes met, and he gave a knowing half-smile that hollowed the dimple in his cheek and kindled the warmth of his deep brown eyes.

Good Lord. No one should be allowed to be that handsome.

“Good evening, Mr. Creighton.” Her voice came out pitched a little too high.

She cleared her throat. Damn it, she wasn’t going to give in to nerves, not now.

“Good evening,” he said. “You’re wearing white again.”

“What? Oh,” she said stupidly.

His gaze lingered at the neckline of her dress, or perhaps below the neckline. In normal circumstances, women were supposed to be offended by that kind of look, but these weren’t normal circumstances, and Genevieve didn’t mind at all.

“I’m going to retire for the night, Miss Genny.” Flory surprised Genevieve by sketching the briefest of curtsies toward her and Mr. Creighton before she turned to go. Well, she supposed Flory had observed all those niceties, when she worked in the grand house in London.

“Just a moment, if you please, Mrs. Tate,” Will said. Flory turned back with a bemused look on her face. “I wonder if I could impose upon you and Miss Bell by asking for a cup of tea for my coachman.”

“Oh,” Genevieve said. “I suppose it is brisk out for a spring night.”

“Well, it’s not only that.” Will acted apologetic. “He’s not actually my coachman. My coachman apparently is ill, the poor chap, and so...it’s my butler.”

His voice lowered as though the man might overhear him, for all that he was a hundred yards away and on the other side of stone walls. “Of course I told him he didn’t need to drive, but he insisted, and I didn’t want to insult his pride. But he is a bit old to be sitting out in the damp, I’m afraid.”

Genevieve found herself charmed by this. A typical lord would probably order the butler to step in as a coachman, and never consider whether it would harm the older man’s health. A somewhat kinder master might tell his servant that he was too old to do such a thing. But it took a rare gentleman to be concerned about both a servant’s health and his dignity.

“Don’t worry about a thing, sir,” Flory assured him. “I’ll take care of...what did you say his name was?”

“Babbage. It’s Mr. Babbage. Thank you so much, Mrs. Tate.”

Will was a good man. He deserved good things to happen to him.

Genevieve felt a spark of mischievous pleasure. She was just the one to make that happen.

“Well, then, Mr. Creighton, won’t you come upstairs?” she asked sweetly.

She just closed the bedroom door behind them when he grabbed her wrist and pulled her against him, with a lover’s insistence and prerogative, bringing his lips to her own.

His kiss was deep, insistent, as if he were a parched man drinking her in. The immediacy of his passion surprised her only because it matched her own. She reveled in the feel of his strong back when she wound her arms around him.

His woolen coat felt slightly damp from the spring drizzle, and she pressed herself closer to him as though to chase away the chill. She explored his mouth and enjoyed the taste of him, no less enticing for being familiar now.

His hands went lower, spanning her hips, and pulled her against him as if to make her aware of his need. And no mistaking it—he jutted huge and hard against her. He still kissed her as if he could never get enough.

“Gen,” he said, when she pulled away at last. “God...what you do to me.”

She didn’t know what pleased her more: his proclamation, or hearing her name shortened into one intimate syllable, as sweet as any endearment. His ardor swept away every last bit of her shyness.

“Me?” she said innocently. “But I’ve only just started.”

He laughed softly.

“I’m going to light a candle. I can’t see a thing in here.” She found her way over to the nightstand, fumbled for a match.

“I believe most ladies prefer the darkness.”

“Most ladies are not with you.” She struck the match and lit the beeswax taper next to the bed.

“Thank you kindly.”

When she looked over her shoulder at him, he grinned. He seemed genuinely pleased at the compliment. It surprised her that it would mean that much to him. Surely he had ladies telling him night and day how handsome he was. She imagined them all ogling him across a ballroom floor, licking their lips like cats in the cream.

But what of them? Tonight he was hers alone.

“I think you had better take off your coat.” She came over to undo the buttons.

“I’m not getting undressed if you’re not,” he complained, even as she eased the coat from his shoulders.

“Have I said any such thing?”

He raised one elegant eyebrow. “So what are the rules going to be this time, Miss Bell?”

“I only have one rule.” She felt deliciously bad. She’d planned and looked forward to saying this to him. “And that is that you are to enjoy yourself.”

“Good rule,” he muttered as she unbuttoned his white shirt, then pulled the tails loose from where they were tucked in to his trousers. When she drew the shirt off his shoulders, he shrugged out of it and peeled off the undershirt beneath. His naked torso glowed gold in the flickering candlelight.

She’d never seen anything like him. The broad shoulders and powerful chest tapered to the ridges of his abdomen. His trousers were too loose, slung lower than his narrow waist, and without even thinking about it, Genevieve put her hands on his sides. He felt warm and solid under her palms. She loved the texture of his skin, loved the scent of him, like leather and bay soap.

Slowly, she stroked her hands up the hollow of his muscled belly and across his chest. She saw and felt his quickened breathing and the beating of his heart.

Genevieve turned up his face to kiss him again, but he grabbed her hands. “No. You next.” He caught up her white dress and urged it over her head.

“You ripped it,” she said with a muffled giggle as he tossed it aside. Her hair fell in her eyes, and she pushed it back. “You’re a brute.”

“I will buy you another one.” He put his arms on her shoulders, looking her over possessively. “I will order you ten more at the Dresses for Lady Artists shop.”

She stood in her corset and thin linen drawers. For the briefest moment, she was afraid that he wouldn’t like the way she looked. Maybe she looked ridiculous.

But when he kissed and nibbled at her throat and breast, sending lightning sensations from her flesh there to her lips and lower regions, making her breath shake in her lungs, she found it difficult to focus on the issue.

“Coventry said you didn’t wear a corset,” he murmured.

“Who’s Coventry?”

“Never mind.” He pressed a kiss near her cleavage, close to her heart, as his fingers nimbly undid the strings in back.

Oh, dear. She hadn’t been naked in front of a man since Adam, hadn’t even modeled for an artist since then.

“Now, I know you’re not shy.” Will must have felt her flinch.

She slipped out of the undone corset and allowed him to strip off her drawers, even though she trembled. She hoped he would make another lighthearted comment, some jest that would set her worries at ease. He didn’t.

He took both her hands in his and just gazed at her body. In the candlelight, it was difficult to read his expression, but he looked serious.

“What is it?” she demanded in alarm.

Will glanced up and met her eyes. “Ah, Gen,” he said softly. “You are just so beautiful. I...” He shook his head. “It’s not real.”

Happiness flooded her as he urged her toward the bed. “No, wait.” She tugged at him when he moved to sit. “Stay standing.”

Maybe he could have sat down, she realized as she said this. But she didn’t intend to get anything wrong. She wanted to see if she could make him feel the way he’d made her feel, the time in the parlor. And in the book she’d gotten from Ruth, the man had been standing up.

Her hands went to his sides again, but this time eased lower, past the waistband of his trousers. She traced the thrust of the hipbones, the smooth slope of his behind. Taking her time, she did what she wanted to do. She kissed his chest, tongued it, left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his hard belly.

She’d never have guessed that she could be so bold. In a minute she kneeled in front of him. From there she untied one of his shoes, then the other. He kicked them off and she stripped off his socks.

“You are very thorough,” he commented.

Genevieve didn’t answer, but set to unbuttoning the front of his trousers. She thought she heard a grunt of approval in the back of his throat as she drew the trousers and the drawers down and he stepped out of them.

His cock stood up almost straight against his belly, startlingly thick, seeming to demand satisfaction. Good Lord, he was enormous.

For the first time she began to have doubts about doing the thing she read about. But she supposed other women encountered similar challenges, and managed.

Before she lost her nerve, her hand curved around his heated sex. Her other hand came up to touch his balls, brushing her fingers across the furred skin there. When she gripped his shaft more firmly, stroking him up and down, he groaned.

The sound of his pleasure made her realize that her own sex was moist. In a moment of inspiration, she reached down and captured some of the dew on her fingers before continuing to stroke his straining cock. He made a choking sound.

She looked up at him. One of his hands gripped the bedpost. His head was tilted back, his eyes closed. He looked beautiful, and vulnerable, too, caught in the moment of sensual abandon. She exulted in her power to be able to bring him pleasure, and wanted to test it to its limits. Feeling as though she glowed all over, she lowered her lips to his cock.

He gasped when her mouth surround its head. “Oh, God, Gen. Yes.”

His fingers stroked her hair, grateful, undemanding. She swirled her tongue around the satisfying roundness, like a perfect plum. She sucked on it. Reaching her hands around him, to the small of his back, she felt how the cords of his muscles were strained and taut.

She tasted something like the sea—was that him? Her own essence? Both of them, mingled. “Mmmm,” she said, and wondered if he felt the vibrations of her utterance.

Now he reached down and dragged her up. He brought her over to the bed and pulled her down with him so they lay side by side. Despite any matter of money, he seemed unwilling to receive without giving in return. Perhaps it wasn’t in his nature.

He pushed up on one elbow, reaching his hand to caress her, but she refused to be so easily deterred.

She rose up and prodded his shoulder, urging him to lie flat. “What did I tell you the rule was?” she whispered, and reached down to take him in hand again.