The Demon's Mistress (4 page)

She was staring at him. Carefully, slowly, she turned her head to look past, unfurling her fan. She couldn't afford to give him a weapon like that, and it would be wrong to use him. She must remember her purpose—to heal him and set him free with the money Maurice had stolen.

“The next dance is starting,” he said. “Shall we be partners again? It will create just the storm you want.”

Storm. An apt name for the tumult inside her, but she agreed. She had set her course and would pursue it, even through a storm of embarrassment, scandal, and yes—frustration.

She was no blushing ingenue. She could control herself and her demon. She went calmly with him to form an eight.

She completed the dance almost hectic with emotion. Beneath dissipation, dark memories, and that nasty scar, was a young man, a devastatingly attractive young man, who was doing his best to bewitch her.

And his best was very good.

She'd struggled to pin her mind to higher thoughts—to his experiences in the war and his need of gentle nurturing at home. Beneath that logical and noble mind, however, quivered a body that wanted to tear his clothes off, press to his heat, inhale and taste him, and bring him nurture and release of another kind entirely. His very youth, his pain, his sensitivity, his leashed resistance to her rule, were all exciting her more than she could have believed possible.

Before he even suggested an outrageous third dance, she accepted an invitation from another man. It didn't matter who, but it was Mr. Fanshawe, a pleasant gentleman who doubtless would like to marry her money, but who didn't make a nuisance of himself about it.

As they strolled, waiting for the next set to start, she made herself seriously consider Mr. Fanshawe as a husband. She did want to marry again, and he was comfortable, undemanding, and her own age. He was the sort of man she had expected to choose, but now the prospect made her want to yawn.

She knew why, but that was only a temporary insanity.

The music started and she let the dance sweep her up, enjoying as always the neatness of fluid movements up and down the line. When she extended her hand to dance round and past the next gentleman, she almost faltered.

Vandeimen!

She recovered, smiled, and danced on. Idiot! Nothing to stop him joining the same line. If he was playing the part of ardent suitor, of course he would. Her hand still tingled from his touch, however.

It must not be.

She wove back down the line, approached him again, joined hands, stepped around, and onward.

That was how it would be. Swirled together by fate, six weeks of linked hands, and then onward and apart. He would have a new chance at life, and she would have a clear conscience.

She did wish it had been possible to do it impersonally, but while she'd been coming up with elaborate schemes, he'd plunged suddenly into darkness and she'd known she had to act. She'd been right, too. Frighteningly right. She still shuddered at the thought of being moments too late.

When it was his turn to dance down the middle of the long line with his partner she saw that he was partnering a flushed and dazzled young thing burdened by a pudding face and frizzy mousy hair. He'd either chosen or been dragooned into partnering a wallflower, but his smile for her was bright and warm, and he was creating a brief heaven for her.

Beneath the wastrel lay a good man. She shouldn't be surprised, and she certainly shouldn't feel a proprietary pride. He wasn't hers, and that was exactly where he should look for a bride. Among the innocent and fertile young.

Fertile. She grasped that painful thorn. In ten years of active marriage she had not conceived, and it hadn't been Maurice's fault. He had four bastards that she knew about.

Vandeimen needed children to rebuild his line.

What a betrayal that she even needed to remind herself of that! Beneath the dark and the scars, however, Vandeimen was a good man, and she was glad of it.

Women teasingly divided potential husbands into three groups—heaven, purgatory, and hell. Maurice had promised heaven but turned out to be purgatory, which she gathered was all too common. Vandeimen, she suspected, was a purgatory who would turn out to be heaven for the right woman.

But not for her.

For supper partner, she chose Lord Warren. He was a widower with two sons, so the fact that she was unlikely to have children didn't matter to him. He was sensible, honest, and persistent in pursuit, but would make an excellent husband. He held a minor position in the government. Perhaps being a political hostess would amuse her.

She concentrated on his interesting conversation, and that of the other people at her table, but then a burst of laughter made her glance across the room. Vandeimen was at a table with a group that glittered with youth, life, and high spirits.

His natural milieu.

“Noisy, aren't they?” Lord Warren said.

Maria turned back to him, pulling a slight face, grateful that she hadn't revealed a touch of wistfulness. “They're young.”

“Indeed. My eldest is not much younger, and he and the rest can destroy tranquility in a moment.”

She sipped her wine to hide another reaction.

If she married Lord Warren, she would become stepmother to sons not a great deal younger than Lord Vandeimen. Only eight years divided them, but the way the world worked they were almost different generations.

She conversed with Lord Warren and the other older people at her table, trying to block the sounds of lively chatter and bursts of laughter from across the room.

It was a relief to rise to return to the ballroom. As she strolled out with Lord Warren she decided she would leave the ball soon. She'd done enough for one night. Vandeimen could come up with other modes of pursuit tomorrow.

Then he rose fluidly from his table to put himself in her way, smiling, seemingly relaxed. Gorgeous.

“Mrs. Celestin, you expressed an interest in exploring the gardens. Miss Harrowby had just suggested a stroll out there. Would you care to come?” He gestured to the French doors that stood open to the warm night.

She froze for a moment. It was bold. It was almost impolite, though Warren would expect to hand her over to a new partner soon. If she accepted, it would be a clear sign to all that she was encouraging him.

Everyone was watching.

She smiled at her escort. “If you don't mind, my lord . . .” then moved her hand from his arm to Vandeimen's.

Glances shot around the young people carrying many messages, and whispering began behind her in the room, but in moments she and a number of other couples were heading into the lamplit dark.

Chapter Four

“Am I a chaperone?” she asked as they walked outside and a breeze touched her skin. That surely explained the slight shiver.

“I do hope not.”

The next shiver was not due to the breeze.

The other couples melted into the shadows, so only the ghostly pale of the ladies' dresses, soft talk, and laughter revealed their presence.

“I feel like a chaperone,” she said, trying to remind him of her advanced age. “Who is partnered with whom, and are the pairings acceptable?”

“Don't fuss. I doubt anyone is going to be ravished.” He turned to her and added, “Who doesn't want to be, that is.”

“Who would want to be?”

“All the men.”

It startled a laugh from her, and he grinned, looking much younger.
Oh, Maria, do you know what you're doing?
When he guided her farther from the house, however, she did not resist.

Though the garden was not large, paths wound around bushes and trellises, creating illusions of privacy. Illusions only, as giggles, conversation, and the occasional squeal could be heard all around.

It was a sleeping garden, but someone had planted nicotiana and stock that perfumed the air, and the paths were studded with creeping herbs that released scents as they walked. The sultry air increased her awareness of folly. This was not necessary for her plan, though it fit neatly with his.

He was going to try to kiss her, perhaps even to ravish her, to prove that he was master. One of these matters of male pride that she recognized without understanding them at all.

The question was, what was she going to permit, and why?

He paused beneath a tree. “Would this be too early for me to beg for your hand in marriage?”

Ridiculously, her pulse began to race. “It would seem impetuous.”

“So. Be a wild, impetuous woman for once.”

The tone stung, and an overhead amber lantern laid harsh lines on his face, deepening the jagged scar.

“I eloped with Celestin,” she said, and relished startling him.

“Your family didn't approve?”

“He was foreign and self-made.”

“You must have loved him very much.”

After a heartbeat, she said, “Yes, yes I did.”

It wasn't a lie. Wild, impetuous love had driven her into Maurice's arms—carefully created wild impetuous love as unreal as this mock devotion.

“Then have another adventure.” He took her hands. “Agree now to marry me. We'll put the notice in the papers tomorrow and shock all London.”

She realized that he was speaking as if they might be overheard, and they might. She was vaguely aware of a couple nearby talking softly but earnestly about the meaning of freedom and love.

Ah, youth.

“Well?” he asked.

No point in hesitation. “Very well.”

He smiled. Even with the amber light it seemed warm. “You've made me very happy.”

“Have I?”

“But of course. Now I get to kiss you. But not here,” he said before she could protest. “That amber light is doing terrible things to your looks.”

That disconcerting thought allowed him to tug her into deeper, untinted shadows. Then she got her wits back. “You do not have permission to kiss me.”

“Are you going to scream?” He pulled her into his arms. “Wouldn't that rather spoil the show?”

She braced her hands against his chest. “Stop this!”

Shockingly, however, his strength and hard body weakened her, as such things always did. Maurice had not loved her, but he'd been a good lover when he'd bothered, and he'd given her what most excited her.

He would turn up in the middle of an ordinary day, seize her arm, and march her to the bedroom. She'd been practically in orgasm before he had her clothes off, and he'd made sure she whirled into that madness two or three more times before he went on with his busy day, leaving her languid.

Satiated.

Conquered by her flesh.

And it had been a conquest, a matter of pride to him to succeed in everything. She'd known it, but never had the strength to resist.

Zeus, she didn't need those memories now. Despite hot skin and aching thighs, she said, “Force a kiss on me, Lord Vandeimen, and our arrangement will be at an end. It will make you a thief of the money you've already spent, and I assure you, you won't see a penny more.”

She couldn't see his expression, but his arms neither tightened nor slackened. “You threatened me once before, Maria. Didn't you learn that I don't care enough? Send me to hell if you want. I'll have my kiss.”

He knocked up her bracing arms and cinched her close, then captured her head and kissed her.

Ravished her.

Shock and remembered hungers opened her mouth and pressed her closer, betraying her utterly. It had been so long, so long, since a man had held her, kissed her like this. She'd told herself she was glad to be free of it, and known that she lied.

She found she'd thrust her hands beneath his jacket, and was clawing at his long, tight back through silk and linen. She stopped that at least, but her heart thundered and that betraying ache had become throbbing demand.

His lips released hers and slid down her neck.

She should stop him now. She should. Instead, she was fighting not to fall to the ground and tear his clothes off.

He pushed his thigh between hers. She heard her own sound of need, and finally dragged herself out of his arms. “St—”

His hand came hard over her mouth.

He was right. She'd been about to scream.

“Hush,” he said softly, “hush.”

No apology, just soothing sounds he might make to a frantic animal.

Animal.

Oh, God.

She closed her eyes, excruciatingly mortified to have reacted like that to the cynical attentions of a man more suited to be her son than her lover. Then she was in his arms again, being held quite gently, her face pressed to his shoulder, however, just in case.

Oh, to wipe out those foolish moments! To take frosty leave of him and never see him again.

You can,
whispered a voice.
Just give him the money and cut free.

She couldn't. He needed more than money. He needed a clean break from corruption, and a helping hand back to ordinary, sane ways. The fact that he'd stolen that dishonorable kiss showed he was still deep in the pit. She suspected that soon he'd be ready to shoot himself over it.

She moved her head slightly to take a clearer breath, and he let her. His head rested against hers, however, and his arms were no longer imprisoning. Despairingly, she sensed that he was relishing this embrace. How often had he simply been in someone's arms?

His mother and two sisters might possibly have held him if he needed it. Mother and younger sister had died of influenza. His older sister had died in childbirth round about the time of Waterloo. His father had shot himself not long after, and perhaps the other deaths had been part of it. It had mostly been the debts, though, and they had been Maurice's fault.

There must have been women abroad, but had they been the sort to just hold him when he needed holding? The sort to whom he could confess fear and doubt? The sort to let him weep?

Did he ever allow himself to weep?

Her own eyes were blurring, tears ached in her throat, and she realized her hands were making stroking movements on his back. Motherly, she told herself. He probably could do with a mother substitute.

She wanted to burst into wild laughter.

She fought for composure and looked up. “I believe we are engaged to be married, Lord Vandeimen.”

She couldn't really see his features, but that meant he couldn't see hers either. The silence stretched too long, however, before he asked, “I should send the notice to the papers?”

She heard surprise. “Yes.”

After another silence he asked, “And then what? Do we go through the form of drawing up marriage settlements?”

“Why not? They will make a model for when I truly commit to marriage.”

He moved slowly away, then linked her arm with his and drew her back to the path and the amber light.

“I apologize for what happened,” he said, looking fixedly ahead. “You are being nothing but kind, and I attacked you, frightened you. Since you are kind enough to continue with this arrangement, I give you my word it will not happen again.”

Maria stopped herself from protesting. This was how it must be, and if he hadn't recognized her reaction for what it had been, that was a blessing.

“Then we have everything settled. Now I would like to go home. You will escort me and my aunt?”

“Of course.”

But he paused beneath a bright lamp and deftly tidied her appearance, straightening her pearl necklace, adjusting her sleeve, and tucking a curl back into a pin. Every brushing touch was flaming temptation, but she concentrated fiercely on the fact that he was being clever again. There'd be enough talk without them reentering the house in disarray.

Presumably tidying up after garden embraces was part of the skills of a military officer.

“Were there many social events in the Peninsula?” she asked, and to keep the balance, reached up to adjust his cravat, thankful for her gloves. Even so, the sense of his skin, sleek over his firm chin, or the muscles and tendons of his neck, could drive her wild.

Heavens, but she wanted him. Rawly and demandingly wanted him.

“Sometimes,” he said, raising his chin for her. “In Lisbon, mostly. And Paris. And Brussels.”

The Duchess of Richmond's ball, from which the officers had slipped away, many not to be seen alive again. Yes, doubtless he had experience at partnering respectable young ladies at balls, and occasionally slipping out for a kiss—or even more—in a garden.

Neglected wives and hungry widows. She knew how men saw these things. Maurice had told her that men, too, thought of women as heaven, purgatory, or hell, but in two different ways. They assessed brides that way, but they also used the terms to assess lovers.

In a potential lover, hell was diseased, or married to a suspicious, vengeful man, or tainted in some other way. No wise man chose such a lover, but she could hear Maurice laugh as he quoted that the way to hell was often paved with good intentions.

Purgatory was what most men had to put up with to get sex they neither had to pay for nor marry for.

Heaven was an attractive married woman with a strong sexual appetite and a safe husband. Some widows fit into that category if they emphatically did not want marriage.

She realized that in some ways she was heaven. She was even barren. A distinct advantage.

She gave the starched cloth a final twitch, then they linked arms to reenter the house. She knew the people lingering in the supper room were watching, as were those they met as they went in search of Harriette. Probably everyone knew by now that the Golden Lily had gone into the garden with wild young Lord Vandeimen who desperately needed money.

She caught a few disappointed grimaces from the wasps and their families, and a few looks of concern, or even pity from others.

It was hard not to shout out an explanation.

Of course I'm not bewitched by this young fool! I'm saving him. In weeks I'll be free, and so will he!

Thank God for Harriette. Maria found herself blank of conversation, but Harriette chattered to Vandeimen without any inhibition at all.

By the time they climbed into their carriage, Harriette had opened the subject of his family and offered condolences on his losses. Along the way, she uncovered the fact that he'd had little contact with the remnants of his family, and hinted that he really should change that.

Maria watched anxiously for signs that his patience with this interference was snapping, but he seemed, if anything, bemused.

Harriette progressed next through the war, gaining a brief account of his career before moving on to her favorite subject, the Duke of Wellington.

Vandeimen seemed indulgent. “If you want stories of the great man, Mrs. Coombs, you'll have to hope my friend Major Hawkinville returns to England soon. He was on his staff.”

“Really! Then I do hope to meet him.”

“My aunt has a
tendre
for the duke,” Maria teased, both pleased and disconcerted by the way Harriette could deal with Vandeimen while she could not. Of course Harriette was over fifty and had sons older than this dangerous creature.

She noted his casual mention of Major Hawkinville, who must be the friend the duchess had mentioned. Who was the other? Lord Wyvern. Ah, yes. She'd heard gossip about the recent death of the mad Earl of Wyvern, and the passing of the title to the sane, Sussex branch of the family. Vandeimen needed friends. Perhaps she could find them for him.

At last the carriage drew up in front of her house, and the first battle was over. “Norton can take you on to your place, my lord,” she said.

He had climbed out to help them down. “No need. And it's somewhat out of the way.”

“All the more need,” said Harriette firmly. “Your place is too much out of the way, young man, and did not look at all comfortable.” She turned to Maria. “I think he should move in with us.”

“Harriette, that's impossible!”

“Why? We have one unused bedroom, and I and the others can be chaperon if anyone thinks it's needed. Well, my lord?”

He looked between them. “Others?”

After half an hour of Harriette, the poor man looked like someone swallowed by the ocean and spat out drenched and exhausted.

“Other guests,” Maria said, unable to help a sympathetic smile. “My late husband's aunt and uncle have lived here for years. They are somewhat invalid, but still present in the house. There is also my young niece Natalie, and my aunt, of course.”

As she spoke, she realized that having him in her house would make it hugely easier to control his way of life. With him off in Holborn she'd be in a constant fret as to whether he was drinking, gaming, or priming his pistol.