The Mistress Diaries

by Julianne MacLean

  “Is everything all right?” she found herself asking, mindful of the fact that she was interrupting things.

  Still he did not meet her gaze. “Let us not talk.”

  He ran his tongue over the top of her breast, gave her an open-mouthed kiss along her collarbone, and she quivered with desire. “You came only for this?”

  “Yes.”

  He continued to lay intoxicating kisses down the side of her neck, then began to undress her with impressive efficiency. When at last—after a minimal amount of foreplay—he entered her, she felt the intensity of his need and realized it was she who was fulfilling all of his desires today. For some reason he had retreated from her, and he needed to possess her in this way.

  One week ago she would have reacted very differently. She would have rejected him in no uncertain terms and sent him on his way. But today she did not wish to deny him. She wanted only to give of herself, to reach into the very heart of him, wherever he was, and bring him back.

  He rose up on both arms and made love to her in the afternoon light, all the while looking down at where they were joined, watching himself move in and out of her.

  She watched his face.

  When his climax loomed, she held him close and did not let him withdraw. He poured into her with a force she felt in the depths of her womb.

  Only then did he finally look at her, deep into her eyes. He pushed a lock of hair back from her temple. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be rough.”

  “You weren’t,” she replied, speaking the absolute truth, for he had not been rough at all. Not in the slightest.

  With tenderness, he kissed her lips, slowly, languidly.

  Afterward, when he could not kiss anymore, he fell asleep in her arms, pressed close to her body on the sofa.

  She was not sure what had just happened between them. It was as if he had come here feeling angry, determined to conquer her, or conquer something.

  She had a feeling, however, that whatever it was, it had conquered him instead.

  Chapter 16

  I cannot even try to pretend that I am his mistress for the sake of pleasure. Now I know my heart has become engaged. I am his, body and soul, and I am terrified.

  —from the journal of Cassandra Montrose,

  Lady Colchester,

  July 8, 1874

  It was dark by the time Vincent arrived back at the palace, leaving just enough time to wash and change for dinner. His thoughts in turmoil, he delivered his horse to a groom at the stables and strode to the palace door. He had not felt anything like this in a very long time, and could barely manage to get a handle on it. It was somewhat similar to the powerlessness and grief he had felt after the loss of MaryAnn. It was like a death. But the death of what? Himself?

  He was breathing hard as his boots crunched over the gravel in the stable courtyard. He was still astonished by the fact that for a brief time today he had been able to forget about his duty to his brothers and the so-called curse upon the palace. He had forgotten everything unpleasant in his life. After waking up in Cassandra’s arms on the sofa in the dower house drawing room, he had made love to her again, and she melted for him and gave up all that remained of her internal resistance. She welcomed him into her soft, quivering body with eager relish, and by the end of it, had become the assertive lover he remembered so well from that perfect, magical night a year ago.

  Although nothing else about it had been the same. Which perhaps was why he felt such discomfort now. He had gone there today with the objective to have sex with her—simple, uncomplicated sex, nothing more. He had gone there to prove that was all he really wanted. But he had felt things beyond the physical. There had even been a moment when he felt like weeping. It was as if he had flown outside of himself.

  Still deeply disconcerted by this change he did not welcome—because the entire world seemed to be positioned between them—he walked through the palace doors and encountered his mother, who was already dressed for dinner in her best pearls and a formal gown of pale blue silk. “I saw you coming up the drive,” she said. “I was watching for you.”

  Vincent handed his coat and hat to the butler. “Were you worried I would miss dinner?”

  Her shoulders rose and fell with a sigh.

  At the sight of her distress, he quickly pushed aside his own personal introspections. “What is wrong?” he asked.

  She started toward the stairs. “May I walk with you?”

  “Of course.” They crossed the great hall together.

  His mother slipped her arm through his. She spoke quietly. “You have heard, I suppose, that Blake is nowhere to be found. Back in the days when you were children, all I had to do was go searching in the secret passages and I would almost always find the lot of you, howling like ghosts and frightening your sister.”

  “But he is not howling in the tunnels this evening?” Vincent hoped a touch of humor might ease his mother’s anxieties, but she seemed unaffected. “He is not in London?”

  “No. At least, he is not at the house in Mayfair, but he never leaves the palace without telling me where he is going and when he expects to return. He is the most responsible son in the world, and I am worried. This is not like him, not at all. And your father is in a tizzy.”

  They reached the second floor and made their way down the corridor toward Vincent’s rooms. “I am sure Blake is fine, Mother. He is out searching for a bride, no doubt, and has fallen hopelessly in love, which is why he is distracted and has forgotten to send word.”

  “That is what Devon said. He told me Blake had mentioned a woman who caught his eye.”

  “There, you see?”

  She did not seem convinced. “Then why is it I am still so worried? Surely you and Devon are right, and I am just reacting to all the recent upheavals in our lives.”

  He remembered, however, his brother’s most uncharacteristic behavior not long ago, when he fell asleep in the billiards room after a night that did not release him from its clutches until dawn. That was certainly not indicative of a proper courtship.

  “Is there anything you wish me to do?” he asked. “I can go to London and hunt the rascal down. I know all the usual places where a man can lose sight of himself.”

  She shook her head. “No, that won’t be necessary. I am sure I am simply being overprotective. Besides, you have a wedding to prepare for. Let us give him a few more days.”

  They reached Vincent’s rooms, but his mother was not yet ready to let go of his arm. “In that regard, there is something else that is weighing heavily on my mind, Vincent. I suppose it is a mother’s duty in life to worry about her children.”

  “And what, pray tell, is that?” He realized too late that he had just been short with her, for he had a feeling he knew what she wanted to discuss, and he was not inclined to talk about it. Not with anyone.

  “You have been spending a great deal of time at the dower house,” she said carefully, “and I wonder how long you plan to keep Lady Colchester there.”

  “Has Letitia said something to you about it?”

  “No, I didn’t think she knew, and those of us who do know have been making every effort to keep it from her, and to keep it from your father as well.”

  He looked both ways up and down the corridor. “Perhaps we should discuss this in private.” He opened the door to his room, and she followed him inside. “You might as well know the truth, Mother. I have asked Cassandra to be my mistress, she has agreed, more or less, and I have no intention of giving her up. Unfortunately my fiancée is no longer in the dark about Cassandra’s presence in the dower house, and she is not pleased about it. But she has not indicated that she wishes to break the engagement.”

  “I see.” His mother moved around the room, her eyes trained on him. “Vincent, I will not waste your time or mine by asking if you love Lady Letitia. It is more than obvious to me that you do not, and thank God for that.”

  He appreciated his mother’s candidness. There was no point in ev
eryone going around pretending not to see what was as obvious as the floor under their feet.

  “I also know,” she continued, “that you have never proposed to Lady Colchester.”

  “That is correct.”

  She strode toward him. “But is it possible you might be happier with her?”

  Happier. It had been ages since he’d entertained the notion that happiness was attainable through romantic love. In fact, he had come to believe the opposite. Yet here he was, rolling around like a confused fool in his own emotions, examining his inner self, and resisting—denying—the love he felt for Cassandra.

  Yes, it was love. As much as he did not welcome it, he was not completely ignorant of his heart.

  “If you thought you could be happier with her,” his mother cautiously continued, “perhaps it is worth exploring the possibility that Lady Letitia might release you.”

  Vincent turned away from his mother and sat down in a chair. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell.”

  “What is it, Vincent?”

  He looked up and felt his eyes burning. “I do love her. Enough to die for her.”

  His mother’s lips curled into a warm and joyful smile. “I am so pleased to hear it. So very pleased.”

  But he bowed his head forward and shook it. “But I am not pleased to admit it. I did not want this. I still do not.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To fulfill my duty to my brothers and secure my inheritance,” he replied. “I did not want my life to change, and I knew it would remain exactly the same if I married Letitia. She is a female version of me. She is bitter and cynical. Hard-hearted. In that way, we are perfect for each other.”

  “But that is not the real you,” his mother told him.

  “It has become the real me.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “No, I refuse to believe that. If you were truly as hard-hearted as you think, you would have allowed Cassandra to leave that day with June, when she learned she would recover from her illness. You would not have gone after her at the train station. You would have let me be the one to provide her with a means of support. You would have washed your hands of her and of your daughter, and never seen either of them again.”

  He frowned at what was unthinkable to him. “I could never have done that.”

  She did not need to say anything more. She was right, and he knew it. There was something left of his heart.

  “But what about Father?” he asked. “You know what he is like. He wants Letitia to be my bride, he is obsessed, and he will never accept Cassandra. She is my mistress and has already borne me an illegitimate child. I cannot let my brothers down, not even Devon. I will never do that. And even if there was a way to change Father’s mind, I am not even sure she would accept me as a husband. She does not trust me to be faithful. How could she, when I have made my opinions on marriage abundantly clear? I have told her time and time again that I do not believe in fidelity and that I will always have mistresses.”

  “But would you have mistresses if she were your wife?”

  As he stared at his mother, he felt himself plummeting like a bird from high in the sky.

  “No. There would never be anyone but her.”

  And with that absolute realization, he sat back in the chair, tipped his head to look up at the ceiling, and finally surrendered to the tough, uphill battle that lay ahead of him.

  It was past midnight when Vincent stripped off his clothes and slipped into Cassandra’s bed beside her. It was all he had wanted to do since he admitted the truth to himself and finally gave way to his feelings. The desire had been unbearable. Over dinner he had decided that he would not marry Letitia. He would demand that she release him, and in return he’d offer some sort of compensation. He would deal also with his father, but did not yet know how. It would require a great deal of careful planning. He could not afford any missteps.

  Naked and ready for him, Cassandra sighed and wiggled erotically at his touch. “I thought you would never get here.”

  “I freed myself from the palace clutches as soon as I could. You smell like heaven.” He kissed her mouth as he rolled onto her, settling upon her sweltering body, easing himself between her luscious pink thighs.

  “Make love to me now,” she pleaded.

  Rising up on both arms, he looked down at her beautiful face in the firelight and her golden hair splayed out on the pillow, then gently slid himself into her engaging, heated depths.

  “Oh yes,” she sighed, her eyes falling closed.

  A cool nighttime breeze blew in through the open window, carrying with it the fresh scents of lilacs and daffodils. Vincent made love to her slowly, achingly, and together they enjoyed the shared sensations of surrender and repletion, until their blood was fired to such intensity they could hold back no longer.

  Cassandra quaked and shuddered with pleasure and cried out into the darkness. Vincent increased the tempo of his thrusts. Seconds later he throbbed wildly inside of her and drained every last drop of his desire into her womb.

  “You did not stop me today,” he said in a voice husky with exhaustion as he lowered himself down, “from coming inside you.”

  “I could not bear to deprive you of the pleasure that was mine, without constraints. And I suppose I have learned to live with the idea of consequences. They have not been so terrible thus far.”

  He could feel his hot breath trapped in the pillow as he spoke. “They shall be happy consequences indeed if you ever carry another child of mine, Cassandra, and I hope you will one day.”

  He also hoped she would be wearing his wedding ring.

  “At this rate, it may happen sooner than either of us could expect.”

  God willing.

  He rolled off her, and she snuggled into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder and running a finger over his chest.

  “I must confess to you,” he softly said, “that I would dearly love for June to know me as her father.”

  Cassandra looked up at him. “Perhaps we can tell her the truth one day when she is old enough to understand and keep it secret.”

  He took in a deep breath. “Or perhaps there will be another way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head, for he was not yet free to propose, and he would not do it improperly. Not like this. He would first do what he must to make everything right. For her.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps I am dreaming.” He turned his head on the pillow and touched her cheek with the tip of his finger. “What I do know, my darling, is that my heart is yours. Completely. Do you know that? Do you understand I do not ever want to be with anyone but you? That you satisfy me in every way a man can be satisfied?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “You satisfy me, too, Vincent. I have never felt so happy, even though I am also afraid.”

  He touched his lips to hers and kissed her in the quiet lamplight, then they lay beside each other for a long time until Cassandra’s hand became limp upon his chest and her breathing grew slow and steady. She was asleep.

  Vincent, however, was unable to rest, for his life had been spinning out of control for too long now. He did not want to wait for June to be old enough to understand that he was her father. He wanted her to know it now. He wanted the world to know. Surely it was possible. It was not as if it hadn’t been done before. He recalled specifically the second marriage of the fifth Duke of Devonshire, who had lived in a ménage à trois with his wife and mistress for twenty-five years, then finally married the mistress after his wife passed away. She had borne him two children who were raised by the wife, and they were accepted in society. The son went on to become a baronet. The daughter married the brother of a viscount.

  But Vincent did not want Letitia for a wife, nor did he wish to enter into a ménage à trois where she would be raising Cassandra’s children. God forbid.

  Of course, Devonshire was a duke. He could do as he pleased. In Vincent’s case, his father would have to acc
ept Cassandra, and in addition he would have to convince the world to turn a blind eye to her previous status as a mistress, which could not be kept secret because Letitia knew of it. Therein lay the problem.

  Feeling restless, Vincent slipped out of bed and picked up his discarded clothing. He dressed quietly in the darkness, then stood over Cassandra for a few minutes more.

  The sheets were tangled around her long shapely legs, her moist lips were parted, her tousled hair spread out on the pillow like shimmering waves of silk. He let his gaze travel up the enticing length of her body, paused a moment to admire her sweet bottom, then his eyes came to rest on her face.

  He had a vivid memory of that moment at the palace when he’d burst into the nursery to find her standing over the cradle with June in her arms, fearing that he would not let her leave with her daughter. How he had resented her that day for her optimistic ideas about love. It had forced him to examine more closely his own dark and cynical beliefs.

  But how beautiful she’d looked—her blue eyes flashing with determination to survive and love her child on her own terms.

  Cassandra had always been proud. She had never been weak, not even while asking for his help, pleading with him to raise her daughter—which could not have been easy when he’d been so heartless and cruel, and when she had despised him, and justifiably so.

  He knew she no longer despised him, and he now understood that love between them was inevitable and worth fighting for. So there was at least some progress to celebrate. A great deal of it, in fact, if one remembered the man he had been not so long ago.

  But it was not enough. He wanted more than just Cassandra’s passions. He wanted her love—the kind of love only she could give. He wanted security, commitment, promises—and not the sort of promises written out by a solicitor.

  God! He could not believe he was even thinking these things! In the past month he had been turned upside down on his ear. He wanted his daughter to know who he was, and he wanted Cassandra’s heart, promised to him forever—happily, willingly, respectably, without guilt, for the rest of their days. He wanted no other woman but her. He supposed it was all he had ever wanted as a younger man—to be a devoted husband and to marry for love. That was the real Vincent Sinclair, as his mother had so wisely pointed out to him earlier in the day.