The Counterfeit Mistress (16 page)

She felt a kiss on the small of her back. “Yes, like that, Marielle. Show me how you need me.”

A new caress, testing, discovering, making it worse. Her whole body cried and begged. Her breaths became a series of gasps of astonishment rising higher and higher until pure and complete release shattered her. He thrust in then, finally, over and over, so hard and deeply that she thought she would feel him for days.

“T
he duke asked me if I would like to ride back to London with him and Monsieur Calvet,” Marielle said that night after debating with herself whether to speak at all.

Tonight's passion contained little of the gentleness of the last one. He had claimed her, unmistakably so, from the moment he took her hand and pulled her up the stairs. Perhaps the dress had caused it, or else their visitors. She had not missed how Penthurst's presence darkened Kendale's mood.

He had mostly moved off her, but he still held her closely. She only mentioned Penthurst's offer because now, held like this, she did not know any fear, least of all of this man's anger.

“He was not propositioning me, either. I think he suspects you have imprisoned me.”

He rose up on his forearms and looked at her. “What did you say?”

“I said that I would stay a few more days.”

His gaze warmed. “It is not much of a prison if you choose to stay. I could not have stopped you from leaving.”

“I will admit I was tempted, but . . . I did not want it known that you kidnapped women and forced them to live in this house. It could be badly misunderstood.”

“I am not much of a gaoler if you worry about my reputation.” He kissed her shoulder, as if acknowledging that prisoner and gaoler no longer described them or this odd visit.

“Did he say anything else interesting? Ask about the household here?”

She might have known he had guessed. “He noticed there were no women, or many servants at all and thought that odd. I told him I had not expected to be the guest of such a monk, but there had been comforts enough to sustain me for a short while.”

“A monk? This is surely not a monastery. As for comforts enough . . .” His hand closed on her breast and stayed there. The sweet warmth touched her, and brought more comfort than he would know.

“He was not sure about us. I thought I would leave him to wonder.” She stretched her arms until they crossed behind his neck. “Why was he here? So full of questions. Too curious for a mere guest. I thought he was a friend.”

“He was a friend once. Perhaps he still thinks he is. I haven't decided that part yet. However, he came, I think, so others would not.”

“What others?”

“The kind of others who follow pretty Frenchwomen who have ambiguous histories.”

That agents of the government might be curious about Kendale alarmed her. That he still spoke so easily about her questionable purposes made her sad.

She scolded herself for feeling hurt. What had she expected? That a few nights of pleasure would turn him into the stupid man she had first dubbed him? The comfort he spoke of was very different from what she felt. A good meal probably made him just as contented.

“Have you done something wrong? You hid most of these men today. From the duke?”

He rolled onto his back, releasing her. She waited for his arm to draw her close again. She would nest her head within his embrace like last night, and perhaps experience that timeless peace again. To her disappointment he remained still and alone, his profile firmly set.

“I have done nothing wrong. Nothing dishonorable. I have simply mapped a path to justice and walked the first few miles.”

“Do you not have courts for that here? I thought the English had many of them. More than most countries need.”

He smiled, but shook his head. “None of our courts will see to this.”

“What good is being a lord if you cannot have justice in a court? I would think even corrupt judges would be careful to be fair in your case.”

“You misunderstood. Our courts are useless because it is not an English matter.”

He said nothing more. The subject distracted him. She sensed his mind turning in on itself to dwell on this map and journey he referred to, and its final goal.

She had become an intrusion in this bed. She pushed back the sheet and reached for her clothes. His hand closed on her wrist. He pulled her to him and tucked her alongside. She rested her head on his shoulder, and her soul sighed as she set aside the weapons she always carried, just in case.

“Do you know about the Siege of Toulon?” he asked, the quiet question floating in the silence.

“Of course.” He spoke of an uprising against the revolutionary government six years earlier, one of many that ended in victory for the republicans. English troops and the English navy had been involved, supporting the royalists. It was on many lips now because this Napoleon who had risen so fast had one of his early shining moments there.

“I was at Toulon, assigned to O'Hara,” he said. “After he was defeated and arrested, after it all fell apart, we needed to get out. A group of us hid in a house owned by a woman whom one of my fellow officers had befriended.”

“They were lovers?”

“He thought they were. God knows that he thought he loved her at least. He planned to bring her with him and would not hear anyone's argument that it would be too dangerous. Feversham was not a man to be sentimental about women, so his view of her received more respect than if he had enjoyed a long string of mistresses.”

A man a little like you, she thought.

“It did not hurt that she was very beautiful, I suppose. All of the men were a little envious of Feversham. This woman helped fifteen of us hide for a week. She brought back information on the deployment of republican forces in the town, and news of the executions. There were a lot of those.”

There always were when insurrections were put down. Thousands died as the new government tightened its grip and enforced its authority in regions less inclined to accept the new order. Six years ago France had been a country where one either hid, or died, or fled.

“She found ways to buy enough food without it being obvious she fed so many. She tended two men who had received wounds. When she came back one day and told us that the troops guarding the road north had been called to another town and the way would be clear that night, we took the opportunity to make our escape.”

A thickness formed below her heart. She thought she knew what would come next.

“The road was clear. For a mile we moved easily. Then suddenly they were all around us, coming from every direction. We were outnumbered and surrounded and fighting for our lives. Feversham's lover had indeed come with him, but when he tried to protect her she broke away and ran to the soldiers. They let her through their ranks and she disappeared. Then we all knew she had betrayed him and led us there to die.” He paused for a long count, then sighed. “And die we did, most of us. I never thought to see such carnage.”

“Feversham?”

“He was cut down but I dragged him with me when I fought my way through. He died on the way, though. Only four of us made it back.”

His confidences had charged the air with intimacy, as if he shared a secret. Only it was not a secret. The whole world knew about Toulon. But his memories had evoked her own from the place where she kept them and they met in the silence. She came close, very close, to telling him that she understood better than he would ever guess.

“Is your justice about this woman?”

Another pause, then he shook his head. “I learned that a colonel took credit for this rout. Her brother, a tradesman, profited handsomely with some kind of reward. I think she confided in him, and he went to the colonel.”

But she had brought them to that road. She had been the betrayer. “You did not answer my question. Do you seek to punish this woman?”

A much longer pause, as if he debated the question. “I do not kill women.”

A startling answer. His justice would be in blood, it appeared. “And that colonel? Who was he?”

He moved again, so that he covered her and their bodies sealed together. He gazed in her eyes and she saw the pain that these memories had brought. She saw something else too. A man looking at a Frenchwoman of ambiguous history, cautiously.

His caress ensured she would not think about that now. He buried the doubt in pleasure. When he had her crying from it, wanting him so much she did not care about his justice or hers, or about trust or faith, he clasped her hands together above her head and held her like that, submissive and powerless, while he thrust into her. He made her his prisoner in truth for a while, but for all of his command and control of her, he could not obliterate the restlessness and stream of raw emotion that she had always sensed in him. Only now she understood why it was there.

I
t was time. Past time. Kendale decided that while he rode beside Marielle the next afternoon.

She had little experience on horses and it showed. They had saddled the oldest, calmest mount in the stables for her, but now they paced through the field slowly so she would not be alarmed. She wore one of the riding habits owned by the last viscountess, a deep blue one cut and decorated to look like a military uniform. That struck him as typical of the nonsense women's fashions could embrace. Still, she appeared very pretty, even if she did not hold the reins correctly no matter how many times he showed her.

“We can return to London tomorrow,” he said.

She did not smile. Her eyes did not glitter. He wanted to think she regretted the end of this sojourn.

“That would be wise. Dominique is probably concerned for me, and I am needed there.”

“It only requires that we finally have that conversation that is long overdue now.”

She cast him a sidelong glance. “The unfinished business must be finished, you mean. Do you not worry that having enjoyed the luxury of this house, and the wardrobe of a lady, I will refuse to finish the business in order to stay?”

“No.” She would not stay. She could not. She had something to do. He just did not know what it was.

“Then let me make quick work of this, milord. I am not a spy. I swear it on the souls of my parents. There, all finished.” She looked over, belligerently. “Do you believe me?”

Did he? If he did not, he would have taken her to the Home Office agent in Dover. He wanted to believe he had not found excuses not to, in order to get her into bed.

“Yes. Although you have taken pains to send items to France. You even sought out Garrett on your own when your messengers ceased to help you. I would like to know why.”

“I told you that I help send over engravings that satirize the worst of the leaders there. If you agree I am not a spy, what concern is any of this of yours? Are you now fighting smuggling as well as the French?”

“People smuggle goods each way to make money. You paid Garrett. He did not hand money to you. You appeared to be paying for a service.”

She groaned with impatience. “I thank you for your interest in my affairs, but you have even less authority on this matter than on the other. Now, since that part of our unfinished business is settled, tell me when we leave. In the morning?”

He would not mind putting it off until later. Much later. Weeks later. He doubted this liaison would survive the return to town. She had her world there, and he his, and they both had duties that did not include the other. He could be excused for calculating how late it would be practical to leave, but delay only put off the inevitable.

“Yes, in the morning.”

H
e thought she might not come to him that night. The pending end of their tryst shadowed the day, much like an approaching storm ruined a summer outing. It was just there, dampening the mood in the house, shading every glance they shared while the last hours of light passed. That evening he distracted himself by tending to estate business at the library desk. She read a book while reclining on the divan.

When they went above he kissed her as they parted, too aware it might be the last kiss ever. Then he went to his chambers, stripped off his coats, and opened a window so the breeze might refresh the nostalgia-laden air.

When a half hour passed, he knew for certain she had chosen to avoid the awkwardness of trying to pretend this passion might last beyond this house.

He threw himself into a chair, closed his eyes, and tried to list the steps he needed to take before his next journey. The dangers and pitfalls finally distracted him enough that he did not hear any sounds disturb the silence. Instead he felt her presence all of a sudden, and opened his eyes to see her standing ten feet away.

“Thank goodness. I thought you might be asleep,” she said. “Or did I wake you?”

“I was not sleeping.” He took in the sight of her, astonished at how grateful he was that she had come after all. “You are painfully beautiful tonight.”

She tossed her hair over one shoulder and looked down at herself. “It is one of the ball gowns. I had to wear one before I left. I never have before. It took me a long time to decide which one to put on.”

She had settled on one the color of champagne. Its low neckline revealed a lot of the top swells of her pretty breasts. A good deal of beading and lace and other things decorated the bottom of the skirt.

“You can have it. Take it with you.”

She smiled but shook her head. “I have no use for it. Perhaps, however, the one I wore yesterday, I will take that. It would be nice to have something more à la mode when I go to parties or visit Emma or Cassandra.”

Her reference to the wives of his friends reminded him that she passed through his world on occasion. He would see her still. He was not sure that would be a good thing.

“I am glad you came here tonight, Marielle. I did not think you would.”

“A sensible woman might not, but I had to. I thought, however, that perhaps—not that I think so, but one never knows—you thought there has been much of a prisoner seeking the lord's favor in my agreeability. If so, tonight that is no longer a possibility. Nor an excuse.”

She walked toward him, the satin fabric rippling like water and her long curls ablaze with a thousand flicks of gold from the candlelight. If he lived to be eighty, he would never forget the way she looked tonight.

Her impish smile played on her lips, but she tried to appear very sophisticated as befit that gown. “Also, I had to come because there is still some unfinished business. Only part was settled while we rode.”

It took a moment for him to realize what she might mean. He waited, hoping he was correct. The mere thought made him harder.

Elegantly, smoothly, she lowered herself to her knees in front of him. Once again her gaze held the promise of untold pleasure while her fingers went to work on his lower garments. This time they worked more efficiently. Soon she held his arousal in her hands. Her fingers began to move.

Normally when she did this he could ride the pleasure and enjoy it for itself. Tonight he could not. Her gaze and position promised more and these caresses became taunts that deliberately, ruthlessly drove him insane with anticipation.

She looked at him, enjoying her power over him. Her thumb circled the tip of his cock and he swelled even more. She leaned forward until the top swells of her breast faced him. Her head dipped. Her tongue flicked. The tease sent a coil of delicious tension through his loins. She repositioned herself slightly and warmth enclosed him.

He gritted his teeth against the overwhelming sensations but soon they owned him, all of him, and he completely surrendered to the pleasure of Marielle's parting gift.

“W
here were you? You were missed at sessions,” Southwaite said. “The Whigs kept looking for you to add your voice to their insistence that there be no negotiations with France. There is nothing like someone who has fought on French soil to add gravitas to the argument.”

“I was at Ravenswood. I doubt I missed anything during sessions. I never do. The debates are all of a type, and minds are rarely changed.”

They chatted while playing lazy hands of vingt-et-une at a polite gaming hall run by Mrs. Burton. At the next table Southwaite's sister, Lydia, and Ambury's wife, Cassandra, gambled at the same game. As best Kendale could determine, Cassandra had come to keep an eye on Lydia, who had taken to gaming with dangerous enthusiasm. Ambury had in turn come to keep an eye on Cassandra, who had been known to lose big herself. Southwaite, who was not a man given to delegating his duties, had also come to watch his sister.

Kendale was here because he needed distraction from thinking about Marielle. Thus far neither of his friends had provided it.

“I have a question, Ambury,” he said while he collected the winnings on the most recent hand. “You can answer too, Southwaite. When you would have liaisons with women, how long did they disrupt your attention and life?”

The question caught Southwaite in the process of asking for a card. His hand hovered in midair while his blue eyes reflected astonishment. He looked at Ambury.

“He has been asking such questions of late,” Ambury explained. “Kendale, being Kendale, cannot simply pursue a woman, bed her, fall in love if Eros so desires, tire of her, and part from her. Prior to any sortie in this special war, he insists on nailing down the rules of engagement.”

“Is he contemplating marriage?”

“Not marriage. He keeps asking about liaisons. Not whores either. He knows all about them. The middle ground. Mistresses.”

“That is interesting. Rather sudden too.”

“It had to happen eventually.”

“Hell, I am standing right between the two of you.”

Ambury clamped a hand on his shoulder. “I'll be damned, you are right here, aren't you. Now, to your question. It depended on the woman and what I discovered once things became intimate. This may shock you, but they are not all that they seem at times. Some of the clever ones become more dim-witted with each encounter. Some of the kind ones become cruel. It is very hard to keep a mask on during an affair.”

“Let us assume that you concluded it would be best to end it, but you had not become so disillusioned. How long would she distract you?”

“You mean be in your head all the time? Interfering with normal occupations?” Southwaite asked.

“Yes. That happens at times, doesn't it?”

“Indeed it does. Has it happened to you?”

“Me? Don't be ridiculous. I am just curious.”

“He is just
curious
,” Ambury repeated, catching Southwaite's eye.

“So what did you do when it happened, Southwaite?” Kendale said, swallowing the impulse to thrash Ambury.

“I tried to be good, but I usually bedded her unless it would be very dishonorable to do that.”

“And that solved the distraction?”

“It usually was the beginning of the end.”

“He wants to know what we did when it did not end,” Ambury said.

“Yes. That was my question.”

“Well, that only happened once,” Southwaite said.

“So what in hell did you do?”

“I married her.”

Kendale threw down his cards in disgust. “Neither one of you is any help at all. For years I have had to listen to long, boring tales of your triumphs with women. Of your seductions and your mistresses, but it sounds as if you learned nothing from the battles. Each time you ventured forth as green as a new recruit.”

His outburst garnered their attention rather too thoroughly. He had to suffer a few moments of them glancing meaningfully at each other. He hated when they did that.

“Kendale, have you become entangled with some woman and can't see how to extract yourself?” Southwaite asked, his voice too much like an understanding vicar's.

“Is it Madame Peltier?” Ambury asked. “If so, all you need to do is cut off the gifts and she will be rid of you in a blink.”

“I have not become entangled with Madame Peltier. I did not say I was entangled with anyone. I merely asked how long it takes for a woman who has been distracting you to cease to do so if you avoid her.”

“Who is she?” Ambury said firmly. “You are far too curious of a sudden and there is some woman at the bottom of this. I insist you tell us who she is. You may think we acted as new recruits, but if
you
ever venture onto the field without our strategic advice, you may as well have a target painted on your chest.”

“Damnation. I ask a simple question out of idle curiosity and end up insulted.” He collected his winnings and took his leave. “Southwaite, you might look to your left. Your sister is winning big again. She should find tomorrow's lecture on the perils of gambling very amusing.”

M
arielle slowly turned the copper plate on its cushion while her hand guided the burin. She carefully carved the outline of a pleasure craft on a river that she had already engraved. She needed to make a few of her views to earn some extra money. The prints she sent to France earned nothing. They cost more than she normally could afford. Nor would they alone solve her predicament. She needed to act, which meant she needed money. She doubted she had saved enough despite the deprivations of the last years.

A letter rested on the side of the table. It had come in the mail but she had not opened it. She thought it was from Kendale. It bore no special seal that said so, and she had never seen his hand before, but the paper had a quality that suggested it was his, and the penmanship reflected a confident, masculine writer.

She had not seen him since she climbed into his coach the morning she left Ravenswood a week ago. He had not even ridden back with her, but chosen to go on horseback. Just as well. That long journey would have been too sad if they shared it. They both knew things would be different in town. He would be going to parties with the best of society, and she would be in this house, listening for intruders, wondering if Lamberte would send more men to learn about her, worrying that the past was catching up with her before she had adequately prepared to meet it.

She turned her attention again to the burin. While she did the door opened. Dominique came in, walked over, and sat down. She lifted the letter and held it to the sunlight coming in the window.

“Are you going to open and read this or not?”

“Later.”

“Is it from him?”

“Possibly.”

“You have been so quiet and unhappy since returning, I would think you would want to know if it is, and what he writes.”

She put her tool down and took the letter. She gazed down at it. “What if it is some dull, polite apology? That would break my heart. What if in hindsight he decided we had been rash and bad? Or worse, only I had been rash and bad?”