Her Mystery Duke (17 page)

His features relaxed, his eyes shone like bright emeralds.
“And you’ll wear the gown?”

“It is so costly. And it will just be you and I …” A
tingling spiral of pure alarm sprung in her abdomen, dampening her arousal.
“Won’t it?” she asked with a smaller voice.

“Of course, just you and I. I cancelled my evening plans.”

He said that last as though it were a gesture of monumental
effort and significance. Well, for a duke it must be. “I want to see you in the
gown. You’ll wear it, won’t you? To please me?”

To please me.

The words resonated deep inside her, tiny starbursts of heat
that slowly caught fire. Flames licked from her womb to her nub. Moisture
seeped from her core to trickle over fast-swelling nether lips. She nodded.
“Yes, I’ll do it to please you, David.”

* * * *

She stood in the opulent drawing room, dressed in that
evening gown, too afraid to sit and ruin it. Nervousness caused a fine sheen of
sweat to moisten her skin and she fretted about how that might affect the
obviously expensive cambric shift and, goodness, silk stockings. She had never
worn silk stockings in her entire life.

Ribbon-and-lace garters trimmed with rosettes.

Above-the-elbow silk gloves with real pearl buttons.

Dainty, low-heeled velvet slippers with gilded buckles.

Heavens.

She walked slowly, carefully to the huge, brass-framed
mirror and then startled. The woman staring back at her didn’t seem real. Her
hair, made to look impossibly light gold by the dark gown, was twisted into a
waterfall of ringlets crowned by a wreath of pink roses, and embellished with
more pearls and a dark blue ribbon with gilded edges. The scent of carnation
and lemon and spice and something she couldn’t identify floated in the air, the
perfume Mrs. Alligood had rubbed on her neck and upper bosom before dressing
her.

David wanted to see her like this. Why did that make a
difference? She wasn’t quite sure, but it had. She wanted to please him.

As he entered, though he wore that aloof, dignified mask of
an expression, she could tell by the way his eyes widened, by the rise and fall
of his Adam’s apple, that the gown pleased him. The sight of
her
pleased him. She felt beautiful and
all things womanly. In that moment, it didn’t matter if she ever wrote another
story, another scene, another word. She might never again have a chance at
publication.

It didn’t matter.

She wanted to go to him and fall to her knees. Right here in
this dignified chamber where he entertained his guests. She would slowly
unbutton his fall, take his cock out, and suck and stroke him until he lost all
sanity from the pleasure. The urge, the need was so strong, a slight tremor
shuddered along her frame. Her knees weakened. She shifted her position then
wet her lips and swallowed, pushing the whole silly scene to the back of her
mind.

It wouldn’t be chased away. Instead the urge became stronger
as he approached. His shaving soap wafted on the air between them. He smiled
that faint little smile which made her heart catch. “Come, my darling.”

He offered her his arm and she accepted. She wasn’t a bold
courtesan after all.

She sat immediately on his right at the long table.
Candlelight bathed the white cloth in soft, dancing tones of yellow-orange and
twinkled through the crystal glasses in sparkling miniature rainbows.

The array of delicately painted white-and-blue china and
luminous silver cutlery dismayed her. She didn’t want David to think she was
crude, uncultured. But she
was
unlearned and as common as plain woolen stockings, and there was no hiding it now.

Well, she would just watch and see in what order he used
everything and copy him. Yes, no need to worry.

The one servant present laid their meal out with a stiff,
unhappy expression, and then he stepped back.

“You may leave us, Johnson.”

Jeanne watched the man leave. “I don’t think he approves of
my being here.”

“It‘s not his place to approve or disapprove. However, he’s
always like that. I suppose I find it preferable to a personal servant who is
forever effervescently cheerful. I am not married. I may bring my mistress to
my house if I choose.”

“Do you often do so?”

“No, you are the first to grace my table.”

“Truthfully?”

“I have only had one other mistress,” he said, as if she’d
already given her consent to be his mistress. “But I was young and my father
was the Duke of Hartley then and he didn’t approve.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” To her surprise she was, for she
had heard the hurt in his voice.

“I think he was right to disapprove. I cannot fault him
now.” His voice carried such deep regret that it resonated in her own heart.

“Why do you feel that way?”

“Because it all ended so badly for everyone involved.
Especially for Thérèse.” His face tightened with a very forced-looking smile.
“But let us not dwell on the past tonight.”

She was disappointed. She had wanted to hear the whole story
of his liaison with Thérèse, to offer her sympathy, but she would not pry.
However, there was something else she wanted to know. “That woman in your box
at the theatre last night…”

Her voice faded away with mortification as the implication
of what she was asking washed over her. One did not ask a gentleman about his
women.

But David did not look offended. “Isabella is my brother
Henry’s wife.”

“Oh.”

He smiled. “She’s a friend. My brother is not fond of social
events and he rarely escorts her.”

“She’s frightfully beautiful.’

He stared at her for a moment. “I suppose she is but I have
never looked at her that way.”

“No?”

“It would be incestuous—in more ways than one.” His voice
held a note of finality that signaled he had no wish to continue speaking of
this subject.

She turned her attention to her food. It was a relaxed meal
served in one sitting of roasted beef with a rich wine sauce, parsnips, roasted
pears, and simple fresh-baked bread. She was grateful for that because she
couldn’t really swallow more than tiny mouthfuls. She kept glancing about at
the elegant décor. Gleaming, dark wood. Bright, shiny brass. Pure beeswax
candles. Her own expensive gown and her silk-clad legs that kept sliding
against each other. The new garters itched.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Not much.”

“Are you nervous?”

“A little.” She looked about again. “Everything is so grand.
This room seems so vast.”

“Yes, when I was child, the wide space in here used to make
me nervous, too. I suppose I’ve become accustomed to the scale. I like this
chamber now. It makes me feel as though there are no limits. The air is clear
here. At the House Of Lords, The Inns and the clubs, there’s always so much
breathing down each other’s necks, everyone always in each other’s affairs.”

“You were afraid of this room as a child?” It was to imagine
him as a small child.

He glanced up at the ceiling and his body seemed to grow
tense, as though it were an instinctive response. For a moment, she could picture
him as a small boy, listening, holding himself rigid in terrible anticipation.
But in response to what?

“I was terrified by most things in this house.” He appeared
to shake himself and he smiled. “Your evening at the theatre was interrupted
last evening.”

“Yes, it was.” She didn’t really want to dwell on last
night. There would be time later to think over everything that had come to
pass.

“Do you often attend the theatre?”

“No, goodness, no.”

“I want to take you to the Italian Opera House tonight. Would
you come?”

“Yes.” The expensive gown made a great deal more sense. His
desire to please her, to make up for the loss of a cherished experience put a
curl of warmth into her chest. She noticed her cheeks were aching. She had not
smiled so much, so often, since…well, since she could even remember. His
statement about a servant who was always effervescently cheerful came to mind.
She was not like this, like a giggling bird-wit. He did this to her and it made
her uncomfortable for someone else to have that power over her. Power over her
relative happiness. It made her feel a bit foolish and heat crept over her
cheeks.

She’d learned a long time ago that one couldn’t depend on
others for happiness, or shared shoring up of spirits, or any sort of positive
emotional experience. This was so dangerous.

However, she couldn’t deny herself the pleasure. She hadn’t
been able to resist the temptations of all the pleasures he’d shown her. She
ran her fingers over the fine, soft velvet covering her lap.

“Will it please you?”

She couldn’t look up. Couldn’t face him. If she did, she
feared she would laugh with the pure joy of anticipation. The Italian Opera
House. Goodness, she had longed to simply see the interior. Now she would spend
an entire evening there in the Duke of Hartley’s fine box. Wearing a gown fit
for a princess. She had obviously wandered into one of her own fairy tales.

“I think it should please me very well, David.”

* * * *

As they walked down the front steps of Somerville House,
Jeanne kept glancing down, sure that she was going to step on the lavish
lace-trimmed hem. But the skirt rested just at her ankles.

Right before they left, he had given her a very expensive
dark blue velvet pelisse that fastened with brass frogs. Emotion still pressed
on her throat from the exchange. She had never imagined wearing such fine
garments.

“Hartley, wait.”

She looked up. The woman from David’s box the night before,
Isabella, was approaching, the plumes in her hat tossed by the wind. Her face
was flushed and she was breathless.

Jeanne dropped her hand from David’s arm, an almost guilty
gesture.

“Isabella,” David said.

“I was coming over. I thought you were ill again.”

He gave the thinnest smile. “I may cancel an evening without
being ill.”

“You never cancel.”

David turned to Jeanne. “Isabella, this is my friend, Miss
Darling. Miss Darling, may I present my sister-in-law, Lady Isabella
Somerville.”

Isabella turned and somehow without making any acknowledging
eye contact, her gaze raked Jeanne from head to foot. Her brows drew together.
“Is she from the Society? I do not remember seeing her before nor have I heard
of her name.”

“Lady Somerville is speaking of the Society for the Better
Treatment for Insane Persons,” David explained. “No, Isabella, Miss Darling is
a personal friend.”

Isabella’s mouth dropped open softly and her eyes went a
little wide. “Oh.”

She pulled her hands close to her body, flickered a glance
in Jeanne’s direction, and then looked quickly away. “Oh, I see. Well, I must
be going.”

“Of course. I shall see you on Saturday evening.”

“Yes, Saturday evening.” Isabella turned and hurried back
down the street.

David turned to Jeanne and offered his arm again. He was
silent until they were seated inside the carriage. “I apologize; that was very
awkward. My brother lives two houses down but I didn’t expect her to come here
this evening.”

Jeanne was all too aware of his leg resting so close to
hers. “She was worried about you.”

“She is annoyed that I won’t be escorting her tonight. I
cannot blame her. However, it is just one more of so many endless balls,
concerts, routs of the Season. Perhaps it will do her good to stay home and
keep my brother company.”

“She was shocked.”

“She was inexcusably rude. How often have I shaken hands
with and smiled into the faces of her various cicisbei and pretended nothing
was amiss? In any case, perhaps she learned a lesson. Isabella should not come
to my home unannounced and uninvited.”

“She assumed I am your mistress.”

His gaze turned heated as he reached her hand. “Aren’t you?”

“No, I am simply your friend.”

* * * *

Moonlight peeked between layers of clouds, making the little
house glow bluish-white. Its neat, green-painted shutters looked black, as did
the winter-dormant flower boxes beneath each window. She turned to David.

Snow dotted his dark hair. Flakes fell and instantly melted
on her lips. Lips that still tingled. The taste of his mouth seemed forever
imprinted on her tongue. His scent still intoxicated her senses. Despite the
cold, her blood still smoldered and hummed. They had exchanged countless,
impassioned kisses in the carriage, on the way home from the most magical
experience she’d ever known. The Italian Opera House had met and exceeded her
most imaginative daydreams of color, richness, and elegance. Her ears, her
blood, and her very bones seemed to pulsate with an echo of the music. A lovely
panorama of emotion burned and pressed upon her throat.

But now it was time to settle back to reality and put her
feet firmly on the ground. Too much happiness could be hazardous. Especially to
the heart. “You said you were taking me home.”

“I have taken you home. This shall be your home from now
on.”

“I tried to tell you gently before but now I shall be blunt,
I don’t want to be your whore.”

He winced. “Whore is such an ugly word, Jeanne.”

“Harlot?”

“My darling, I am asking you to be my mistress, not my
whore.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

“There is one, I assure you.”

“Explain it to me.”

“A man pays a whore to leave. He pays a mistress to stay.”

“Now you want to pay me to stay?”

“I want to cherish you. To provide for and protect you.” He
took her hands. “This is very discreet. It is a quiet street, filled with
decent, hard-working people who mind their own business.”

“People never mind their own business.”