Her head spun, and she wrapped a hand around his nape, seeking stability but only succeeding in encouraging him to drive her harder. He grasped her hips and pushed her back on his lap. She made a sound of disappointment, but the feeling didn’t last long. His fingers coasted to her mons.
She tensed. She was bared and vulnerable to him, yet she wanted to invite him in. The urge to close her legs against him warred with the need of her body. Her legs trembled. His lips nuzzled her damp chemise aside to expose her breasts fully to him.
“I’m frightened,” she whispered.
“I’ll take care of you, sweetheart. Let me touch you.”
She was incapable of an answer beyond tightening her hold on his shoulders and leaning into his touch. And then… he was touching her folds, slick with desire, and she forgot to worry about anything except the pressure building low in her belly.
He was a magician. It was the only explanation. While his fingers traced and dipped and slipped through her folds, his thumb worked the epicenter of the building pressure. She gasped, and he captured her lips as the tension burst and sent pleasure flooding through her.
Time passed. It could have been seconds or minutes or hours, but when she lifted her head from his shoulder, the moon was still on the rise in the night sky.
In the aftermath of the maelstrom, he sipped on her lips. His cock was still hard against her. If she were braver, she would unbutton his fall and slip her hand inside to offer him the same satisfaction he’d freely given her.
“I had no idea such was possible.” Her voice was hoarse. For all she was aware, she’d screamed her pleasure for all to hear.
“And now you do.” He shifted her to sit crossways in his lap. Her bodice gaped open, but she was beyond modesty with him. “That was, in fact, my opening offer.”
She raised her head and pushed her mostly unbraided hair over her shoulder. “I don’t understand.”
“I can’t bear not to see you after this week. It’s been special. You are special.”
“It’s impossible. You know this. I will return with Miss Tremaine to Penhaven, and you’ll forget me before you even reach London.”
He threaded his fingers through her hair, undoing the rest of her braid, and brushed soft kisses against her forehead and cheeks and lips. “No, I won’t. I’ve never felt this way before, and I’m not sure I ever will again. I can’t lose you.”
“There’s nothing to be done.” She tried to keep her voice firm, but it wavered with emotion. “You can’t marry me.”
“No, I can’t.” His easy agreement made her feel like a bird hitting a window, dazed and hurt.
“But that doesn’t mean we can’t be together,” he added.
“Do you want to keep meeting? Perhaps at the pond on the edge of Wintermarsh?”
His laugh was husky and slightly rueful. “I’m attempting in the most obtuse way possible to offer you carte blanche.”
“What is carte blanche?” She stumbled over the French words. Yet another deficiency in her education.
Simon framed her face with his hands and forced her to meet his gaze. “I want to escort you to the opera, the theater, museums. I will furnish you with the wardrobe of your dreams and a lady’s maid of your own. You will have your own town house with a bed outfitted with the finest linens.”
She swallowed past a lump of disappointment. “You are asking me to become your mistress.”
“Yes. A most cherished mistress.” He rubbed his nose against hers with an affection that made her want to alternately agree to anything he proposed, no matter how scandalous, or plant him a facer.
Could she blame anyone but herself? In his eyes, she was a servant, and so far below his station as to make his offer positively benevolent. For a blink of time, she considered what it would mean if she accepted.
Her own house with servants to see to her needs. No Goforth to lord over her. Simon would be kind and do exactly as he promised. The price for the gowns and servants and house would be ready access to her bed. It wasn’t like she was against the notion of Simon in her bed. She could envision long nights together without a stitch of clothing between them. How many times would he bring her to climax?
On the heels of such decadent imaginings was a cold shot of reality. He would eventually marry. He would be required to bed his lady wife. He would have children with his wife, not with her. And at some point in the not-so-distant future, he would tire of her, and she would be replaced with another wide-eyed country girl. The thought was the twist of a knife. A mortal blow.
Then there was her brother. What would happen to him in this selfish scenario? He would never be allowed to ever see her again. She would be well and truly ruined. The price for pleasure was too steep.
She scrambled off his lap and pulled her bodice together. “I can’t be your mistress.”
He rose, his person looking decidedly rumpled. His hair was disheveled by her fingers, his waistcoat open, and his shirt gaped at the neck, the tails hanging out of his breeches. She was in an even worse state.
He cupped her elbows and drew her closer. “The situation is not ideal, but I would do everything in my power to make you happy.”
“For how long?”
“Pardon me?”
“How long would we be happy before you tired of me? What if your lady wife bids you to give me up?”
“I can’t imagine ever tiring of you. And as for my future wife… This type of arrangement is not unusual in the ton.”
His casual acceptance of having a wife and keeping a mistress set anger and disappointment kindling in her belly. “This type of arrangement is not usual where I come from, sir.”
“If the future worries you, I’ll have a contract drawn up.”
“A contract.” Her voice was bland with her shock. “And will this contract specify how many times a week I must spread my legs for you?”
He reared back but didn’t release her arms. “Of course not. It would detail a monetary exchange in return for your… favors.”
“Your offer would make me little better than a prostitute.” She jerked out of his grasp.
“What would you have me do?” He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration tightening his voice.
What was she doing? She was supposed to be telling him the truth. “There’s something I need to tell you. I’m not who you think I am.”
A noise whipped their attention to the entrance of the gazebo. By the sound of it, several people tramped closer, their masculine voices pitched low.
Jessica fumbled with the bodice of her dress, panic and nerves causing her to make a hash of the endeavor. Simon cursed and tried to repair himself as well. It was useless. The moon cast its light over them, lighting every corner of the gazebo. The only other option was escape into the garden. She would find a hedge to hide behind.
She made it to the three steps leading from the gazebo to the path. Her escape was blocked by three men. The scent of cheroots wafted on the breeze. The braying laugh of one man froze her. Goforth.
Simon planted himself on the step below her and shoved her behind him just as the gentlemen spotted them and halted. She peeked over his shoulder, the height difference making the endeavor easier. Goforth was accompanied by Lords Drummond and Wyndam.
A gleeful expression lifted Goforth’s lips around his cheroot. “Isn’t this an interesting tableau? The high and mighty Duke of Bellingham, defender of the poor and disenfranchised, is caught taking advantage of a servant.”
She ducked fully behind Simon, trying to make herself small. Panic made her palms dampen, and she clutched the silk of his waistcoat, probably ruining it forever. His jacket had been flung aside during their lovemaking. If she could maintain her masquerade until she was free of Goforth’s focus, she would put things right tomorrow.
Simon’s voice was cold and stern. “Allow the lady retreat to the house, and we can discuss matters.”
“Wait until your sycophants in Parliament hear about this little tryst.”
Goforth’s tone was mean-spirited, but that was nothing unusual. “Your reputation won’t be worth a farthing once I’m done with you, Bellingham.”
“You think anyone in London will care that I dallied with a lady’s maid?” Simon’s dismissive tone would only enrage Goforth more.
“A lady’s maid, eh? She’s dressed more like a scullery maid. To sink so low, Your Grace.” Goforth’s tuts dripped a familiar venom. “It will be quite the on-dit.”
Jessica straightened her shoulders and fastened her bodice as best she could considering how her fingers trembled. She knew what she had to do no matter the cost to her. With her chin high, she stepped out from behind Simon’s back.
“Stay behind me,” he said quietly through clenched teeth.
“You will say nothing to tarnish the duke’s reputation.” Her voice came out clear and with more strength than her knocking knees could claim.
“And what do you have to say about it, girl?” Goforth whipped the cheroot out of his mouth and ground it under the heel of his shoe. “You are ruined. Once your lady finds out what you’ve been up to, you will be cast out with nothing but the clothes on your back and no reference from your master. That’s no less than you deserve.”
“No man is my master.” She moved to the bottom step of the gazebo, putting herself at equal height to Goforth. “Especially not you.”
“What an impudent tongue you have. Don’t you know how to address your betters, girl?” Goforth’s meanness was legendary among the staff. It’s why few were loyal.
Simon joined to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. “Don’t you dare speak to her disrespectfully, Goforth.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Grace. I’m sure you’ve disrespected her enough for both of us this evening.” The salacious meaning was clear and ignited a blush in her cheeks.
She could not afford to be cowed and lifted her chin higher. “I’m sure Mr. Goforth didn’t intend to impugn his own stepdaughter.”
It was almost worth the hell sure to follow to see Goforth’s mouth hang open. Only too soon, outrage replaced the shock. “You little slut.”
Simon grabbed Goforth by the linen and twisted. Jessica cried out but had no clue how to defuse the coming explosion of violence.
Lord Drummond grabbed Simon’s arm before his fist made contact with Goforth’s face. “Let’s retire to the library to discuss this like gentlemen over a glass of brandy, eh?”
Although phrased as a question, the command in the earl’s voice brooked no argument. Simon shook Drummond’s hand off and straightened his waistcoat. Goforth’s face was red, and he was breathing hard, staring with unmitigated hatred at Simon. Yet he nodded.
Lord Drummond turned on his heel and strode toward the house with Lord Wyndam at his side, not even glancing over his shoulder. He expected to be obeyed, and surprisingly, Goforth followed with nothing more than a few unintelligible mutters.
Before Simon could do the same, she touched his arm lightly, unsure whether she should explain or apologize. Simon gripped her wrist and pushed her sleeve toward her elbow, holding her bare forearm up. The moonlight illuminated the dark bruises Goforth had left there the day before.
Simon cursed and dropped her hand. “You lied to me.”
“No!” She shook her head. “Well, yes, but not with the aim of hurting you. I intended to tell you. My real name, that is.”
He made a scoffing sound, shrugged his jacket on, and brushed by her. She tried to keep pace with him, but he only walked faster and faster until she was breathing hard by the time they entered Wintermarsh through the front doors.
Lord Wyndam exited the study and sent Jessica a nod she interpreted as sympathetic. Or was it scathing? He disappeared up the stairway. What would his wife and Lady Drummond think of her once they heard about her deception? She deserved to be given the cut direct and worse.
Simon stopped in the middle of the grand entry and raised a brace of candles to study her from head to toe in the light. “How could I be so blind?”
“You weren’t. I disguised myself with padding and paints and powders.”
“Your accent.”
In her panic, she had slipped back into her quasi-American accent. “I have a good ear and can go back and forth.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I started years ago to avoid Goforth’s machinations. He plans to use me to his own ends.” The desperation she fought on a daily basis under Goforth’s thumb infused her voice, but Simon seemed unmoved.
Lord Drummond stepped into the doorway and jerked his head in an unmistakable get-in-here gesture. He was as protective of Simon as Jessica was of her little brother. Would Lord Drummond rail and curse at her?
Simon stalked into the library, and Jessica had no choice but to follow. It was time to pay for the pleasure she’d stolen with Simon.
As soon as the door closed, Goforth grabbed her upper arm in a grip so tight she couldn’t stem a small cry even though her reaction provided a satisfaction she wanted to deny him.
Simon shoved Goforth’s shoulder hard enough to loosen his grip on Jessica. She backed away and rubbed her arm, although she was more shocked Goforth had shown his colors in front of the two men than physically hurt.
“Look at you,” Goforth said accusingly. “You aren’t an ape-faced hag after all. You’ve played me for a fool.”
“It was hardly a challenge.” Jessica didn’t break eye contact with Goforth even though she wanted to judge Simon’s reaction.
“Did you take up with him as revenge on me?” Goforth pointed at Simon.
“You give yourself too much credit.” She was afraid of what she might see on Simon’s face. Disgust. Hatred. “The duke is kind and easy to talk to. He understands me.”
Goforth turned to Simon. “Did you dally with her knowing she was my stepdaughter?”
“No.” Simon bit the word out as if the fact she’d fooled him as well was physically painful.
“The duke was under the misconception I was Abby.”
“Was that simpleton party to your fraud? I’ll have her out on her ear this very night,” Goforth said.
“No! She’s entirely blameless. It’s all my fault. All of it.” She turned her attention to Simon, but he gazed at the ceiling, his jaw tight. “I’m so sorry, Simon.”
“Naturally, I will make an offer for Miss”—Simon tripped over her name—“Miss Tremaine’s hand in marriage.”
“Did you take the girl’s maidenhead?” Goforth’s crude question set Jessica’s cheeks on fire.
“I did not, but she is ruined, nevertheless. I will do what’s honorable.” Finally, Simon dropped his gaze from the ceiling to her. None of the warmth and teasing she was used to radiated from him. His blue eyes were as cold as a January snowfall.
“There is no bloody way in hell I will allow you to marry her.” Red crept up Goforth’s neck.
“You would rather see her disgraced?” Simon asked.
“I would rather see her dead than form a connection with a man like you.” Goforth’s voice rose, and he stepped toward Simon, the threat clear.
Two paths came into focus. One would see her a duchess, married to a man she loved who would never forgive her, much less love her in return. The other would see her wed to a man of Goforth’s choosing. Either path seemed intolerable, but if she chose wisely, only one of them would suffer because of her poor judgment. She refused to be the instrument of Simon’s unhappiness.
She stepped between the two combatants and held her hands up. “There is no need for such a grand gesture as marriage. No one knows what occurred beyond the people in this room and Lord Wyndam. I assume we can count on your discretion as a gentleman, my lord?”
Lord Drummond gave a single nod. “Of course. Marcus will gladly keep your secret.”
“You are refusing my offer of marriage?” Simon’s gaze had sharpened, but the iciness had melted. “Wasn’t that the aim of this great deception?”
“Whatever you may think of me, You
r Grace, trapping you in marriage was never my intent.” Oh, but she had dreamed of marriage to Simon. Blissful days—and nights—spent laughing together and sharing their burdens. In him, she’d found someone who listened and understood her. Or at least, it had seemed that way. At the moment, he looked at her as if she were a schemer of the worst sort.
“I expect no word of this incident to circulate in London to ruin Jessica’s entrance into society. In return, I will not besmirch your name, Bellingham.” As grudgingly as the promise emerged, Goforth offered his hand to seal the agreement.
Simon hesitated, throwing Jessica a glance she refused to meet, and then shook Goforth’s hand. “Fine. This little indiscretion will be forgotten.”
“Could you call for our carriage, Drummond?” At Lord Drummond’s reluctant nod, Goforth took her chin in a tight pinch and examined her face and hair with the satisfaction of a man receiving an unexpected gift. “You are a conniving little thing, but your game is up. Your London season just got more interesting. Pack your things. We’re leaving at once.”
“Won’t running away in the middle of the night cause more gossip?” she asked.
“No one will be sorry to see you go. I doubt anyone will even notice.” His words stung with a truth she wanted to deny.
Once in her room, she sank down on the edge of the bed and covered her face. She was hollowed out of hope and happiness, the emptiness vast and forbidding. She laid a hand over her chest, but her heart was still in there somewhere, beating. After all, she was a survivor.
A series of regrets swirled. What if she could have told Simon the truth before being caught? Would he have been more understanding to her plight? Or would he have turned away from her no matter what?
Abby came into the room, her eyes wide. “Are you well, miss?”
She was as far from well as she could imagine. “We’re to leave immediately.”
“So I was told.” Abby started packing away her dresses but hesitated. “Should you change?”
A Daring Deception Page 17
