Mistress at Midnight (13 page)

The question had her turning away because in just those few words he had understood what she had tried so hard to hide.

No one
.

She had always been alone. Fighting, trying, hobbling into each successive day with the weight of the world on her shoulders and no hope at all of being rid of any of it. Until his promise of help had thrown her with its bright and buoyant hope; a golden troth that had changed everything and now seemed gone.

She hated how expectation made a mockery of morality and when Stephen Hawkhurst held her to the spot with a quick grab of her hand she did her best to shrug him off, short nails digging into the flesh of his wrist. She did not try to be careful or gentle. All she wanted was the cold anger of force, dragging between them, punctuating the impotence and weakness that was her life so far, never in control.

And now another humiliation, more complete than ever before because even with such a simple touch she knew that she had never wanted anyone as much as she wanted
Stephen Hawkhurst. Her right hand slapped hard against his arm as she tried to get away.

He bundled her close in self-defence, holding her fists and tethering her to him. The breath between them mingled, harsh and quick, the warmth of it like a sting.

‘I tend to myself.’ She would not allow the ease of tears she felt pooling in the back of her eyes. Nay, she writhed at the horror of him seeing such feminine inadequacy, though as his knee came firm between her thighs she understood exactly what she had not before.

He could take her with or without an agreement here in his house at dusk, the solid door shut tight against intrusion and not a soul cognisant of her whereabouts, save a servant who was in his employ. The chaise longue stood just behind them and his glance flicked to the possibility.

‘No one looks after you, damn it, Aurelia. Every problem your family has is laid at your doorstep for a solution and another few months of such worries will finish you off. You want to be serviced merely for the chance of your sisters’ happiness. You want to give me your body for cold hard cash and an exchange of nothing. Where in that is
your satisfaction, or have you played the martyr for so very long you now enjoy the state of suffering Charles made such an art form of?’

He pushed against her, his manhood ripe, the stretch of maleness piercing shock. A dangerous man full of promise and peril. Every part of him was menacing.

‘I do not understand…’ she began and tipped her face to his, the onslaught of her words stopped by the movement. There was never a chance, she thought later in her room at home, when the memories of the evening returned to leave her sleepless and unsteady, never a chance when a woman like her could have held back the appetite of a lord renowned for getting exactly what he wanted and when he wanted it.

His mouth slid across her own, moulding her face closer with his hands so that the breath he gave her was his, teeth tugging against her lower lip. Pain had its own particular lust after all, she thought, as she pressed forwards to find the promise and the heat.

She knew her bodice was loosened, knew that with only a little effort her breasts could slip from their tether and be in his hands.
and she wanted that, the forbidden avidity which was such a far cry from her work-weary and ordered world.

When would another chance like this one ever arise, the years of her youth stealing by at an ever faster rate and no end in view for any of it? Leaning forwards she let him see exactly what she had on offer and did not look away as his fingers dipped across her throat and came down beneath soft lawn.

Lord, but she was good, the taste of her like some fine wine left in a cellar for years untended and undiscovered, breasts beneath his fingers firm and high and generous. He felt the bodice lower as he tugged at it hard, and then the thin chemise fell away before the warmth of woman was upon him, her nipples rigid, budded and proud.

He was not careful as he pinched such bounty and felt her draw in breath. He was not kind as he broke away from the kiss and covered the gift with his mouth, suckling as he turned tension into compliance.

She was his to take and take, the red whorls of need drawn upon her skin where he had lingered too long, the blood beneath the surface rising heatedly at the pull of his
desire. Marked and branded, the porcelain white of her lost into his mounting urgency.

His eyes drank in a beauty beyond comprehension. He felt her hand at his nape keeping him to the task, her breath ragged now and hoarse, passion filling all the cracks of doubt.

‘My God.’ His voice was shallow, rough, the sound of one who had faltered from some well-worn path and wandered into Heaven.

‘My God,’ he repeated as he drew back and she made no move at all to hide her wares, but stood there stock-still with her mismatched eyes and her silence.

He could not take her like this, not without all that she should have been accorded and everything she deserved given to her. Her pulse leapt in her throat, her glance dazed and glassy, the stamp of craving drawn in tight rosebud nipples and in the beating want between them.

‘Cover yourself.’
She did not move.

‘Cover yourself, damn it, Aurelia, before I lose my reason entirely and you understand exactly what it is that you offer so very lightly.’

He picked up her coat and draped it around
her, the dark wool contrasting boldly with the colour of her hair. Like the sirens of Li Galli with their riotous curls ensnaring any man straying upon them as they danced in the deep blue sea of despair.

He had had enough, the pain of his arousal beating hard and unappeased and more than a small share of lust coursing through him. Unsated. The emptiness in him surfaced fully and he could not help his anger.

‘Your coat should conceal any damage to your gown and my man will see you home.’

He was relieved when she finally seemed to rouse from her stupor, a dash of anger comforting him. He watched as she turned and fastened the coat across the loosened day dress, tucking her hair into an untidy plait with shaking hands.

Wilson came when he rang, his face devoid of expression as he shepherded her away, her footsteps in the hallway receding into silence.

Gone. Hawk’s right hand fisted and the ache in his thigh was more painful than it had been in years. Limping to the fire, he held his palms out to the warmth and hated the way they trembled against the backdrop of flame.

She sat in the carriage, her back ramrod stiff. His smell was upon her and the depths of shame at her behaviour brought her breath to a standstill. What had she done? Her breasts throbbed under the scratchy wool of her coat, each one remembering the feel of his mouth against her fullness, taking that which she had never before offered to anyone. Closing her eyes, she leant her head back against the cushioned velour feeling…changed. Altered. No longer bound by a frigidity that had defined her.

Her tongue ran across her lips, as if she were asking him back in the darkness, wanting his need to strengthen her. There was nothing left of the girl who had gone to plead the case of her sisters. Now she was only woman.

When a tear traced its way down her cheek she did not wipe it away, but let it fall on to the skin of her hand and be gathered into the fabric below. Her breathing she tempered with a steady rhythm. Two or three more minutes and she would be home and no one must ever know about the events of her lost evening.

She had played her cards and folded. She
doubted Lord Stephen Hawkhurst would ever want to see her or speak with her again.

Stephen listened as his carriage pulled away from the house, his four greys running well. Luc’s words came back in the silence.

Only a good woman can get under your skin
. Well, Aurelia St Harlow was neither good nor loyal, her knowledge of Charles’s murderer countering all she had told the courts of England and confessed to tonight by some misguided sense of perceived advantage.

Everything they said of her was true. The lies. Her part in her husband’s demise. Even the rumour that had circulated about her unusual tastes might have been genuine, given her easy offer of sexual gratification and her attendance at the opium parties of his cousin.

And yet he was still not running to the War Office with the facts at hand and turning her into Shavvon as the traitor he suspected her to be.

Why not? Because underneath everything Aurelia implied he saw the shadows of what was not being said and he had always been adept at understanding nuances. There was something wrong with her confessions, some
fact missing that might otherwise explain her actions exactly and he needed to find out just what they were.

For the first time in a long while he capped the bottle he drank from and sat at his desk to write. Lists always worked for him, lists to connect the dots from one to the other and come up with an explanation instead of a mystery.

She was loyal to her family and she was brave. She was hardworking and tenacious. She had been married to his cousin for three long years, yet nobody could remember her in Charles’s company because she had never come down to London.

She loved her sisters and she protected her father, and the mother she had spoken of who resided in France was still alive. Could she be as loyal to her? She protected everybody in her family and sheltered them under her wing of refuge, never mind that the task was an onerous and never-ending one. Her money was low and her costs were high and the silks she designed were not yet making ends meet.

A pattern was beginning to form and it was not that of a self-serving mercenary with little regard for the welfare of others.
As more questions formed he jotted them down and, oblivious to the time passing, worked well into the early hours of the morning as he tried to determine the motivation of a woman who was beginning to inhabit his very soul.

Chapter Ten

‘B
ut it suits you, Lia, and there is no earthly reason that after eight years away from society you cannot at least show off a few of your charms.’

Leonora’s voice crowded in upon doubts as Aurelia looked at herself in the full-length mirror to one end of her sister’s room. The emerald gown seemed to glow under the sunlight slanting in from the windows, making her hair look redder and her skin more pale. ‘I do not know. It is awfully tight here and very low there.’ She pulled at the heavy silk, trying to make the décolletage rise up further over the swell of her breasts.

‘It seems low only because you insist on wearing that ghastly high-necked black dress which is a hundred years out of date.’

Her sister’s exaggeration made her smile, though a more sobering thought overtook the humour. Perhaps it was time to be the person she should have become before it was too late. For a whole two weeks she had worried as to what might be the outcome of her foolish attempt to bribe Lord Hawkhurst for his continued silence. Every day she had watched for members of the constabulary to come and take her away. Like a sword about to descend. Like walking on eggshells. When exactly would he testify against her and ruin what little reputation she still retained? Lord, perhaps this might be her last chance to wear a gown such as this one.

Shaking her head, she resolved to listen to her sister. The dress had been fashioned by a most respectable seamstress on the advice of Leonora and, with the proper accessories, would hardly be considered ‘racy’.

‘It’s not as if we never receive cards any more, Lia, and Rodney was most insistent that you come with us tonight. Besides, a masked soirée is a perfect opportunity for you to have some fun for you hardly ever go out save to the warehouse and the park with Papa on a Monday. If you tarry too much longer, your chance of anything different
will be gone, don’t you see, and I want you to be happy.’

Aurelia smiled and when her sister leaned over and kissed her on the cheek she took another quick look at herself. The mask would largely hide her face and if she left before midnight she would have a good chance of remaining anonymous. Hawkhurst would be there—she had heard from Rodney Northrup himself—and it had been that fact that had propelled her headlong into considering putting in an appearance.

She wanted to see Lord Hawkhurst, even from afar. She wanted to be in a room where he was, breathing the same air and seeing the same things that he did because since their contretemps at his town house she had not heard anything at all from him.

The very thought of it made her worry. Should she not cut her losses and simply disappear altogether? A feat more easily accomplished without three sisters all requiring the help of society to find husbands, a very sick father to care for and a business that needed her at the helm for a few months longer.

‘Elizabeth Berkeley was in tears last night at the Sorensons’. Lydia Sorenson whipped her away before anyone could enquire what was
wrong, but it seems Lord Stephen Hawkhurst might be a part of the problem.’

Breathing in slowly, Aurelia feigned the least bit of interest as she picked at a thread hanging loose from her sleeve. ‘In what way?’

‘Perhaps he has cried off from offering his hand in marriage. Rodney says his sister Lady Lindsay was never certain about such a match.’

‘But Cassandra Lindsay told me Lady Elizabeth was lovely.’

‘Lovely for a younger man, perhaps. Lord Hawkhurst needs a woman of more substance and resource.’

The words did not seem the sort Leonora would have normally used. ‘Rodney told you that?’

‘He did.’ She clapped her hands across her mouth. ‘Though on reflection he asked me to say nothing of it to anyone and I should have respected his wishes.’ She paused for a moment and Aurelia knew that there was something on her mind. ‘The thing is…Lord Hawkhurst specifically asked if you were coming tonight. I heard him enquire when he was speaking to Rodney the day before yesterday.’

Despite trying not to, Aurelia reddened and felt the unwelcome glance of her sister’s puzzlement upon her. Would he wish to speak to her about Charles? She had promised him a letter, after all, but had not penned it because it was too precarious to entrust such a secret to a man whose motives she did not comprehend. Could the whole evening be a trap?