My Fair Mistress

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Her husband had obviously been an arrogant, self-important ass who hadn’t cared for anyone but himself. Clearly, he’d treated Julianna with callous disregard, taking her with no thought for her feelings or her needs. All the man must have cared about was using her for breeding stock. How disappointed he must have been when she couldn’t be brought to foal!

  Well, all of that was in her past now, and she would find no such mistreatment here in his bed.

  He studied her as she lay naked before him, her clean, shiny hair hanging dark as the veil of night over her shoulders, reaching nearly to her waist. Her gorgeous breasts peeped from beneath that hair, round and ripe and pert—a perfect fit inside his hands. Below them, her waist was hourglass tiny, her hips flaring out in a generous feminine curve, her legs long, soft, and supple.

  When she made no move toward him, he decided his request must indeed be too much for her. He should not be surprised given her shyness, he thought in resignation. There would be time enough in the coming weeks to persuade her.

  But before he could act, she reached out and laid an elegant hand upon one of his shirtsleeves. His erection jumped as if she’d touched him there instead. Slowly she went to work on his cuff buttons, slipping them free one fastening at a time. Once she was done with that, she reached upward to work loose another trio of buttons at his neck.

  His hunger raged. He swallowed against it as her cool fingers brushed along the hot skin of his throat.

  One. Two. Three.

  It seemed as if an eternity passed while she opened his collar, the edges of his shirt hanging open to mid-chest. Done, her gaze lowered, a tiny line forming between her lovely brows.

  He held his breath as her little hands hovered. Will she continue? Does she have the courage?

  He sent up a silent prayer of thanks when she gave her answer by grasping his shirt and yanking loose the tails. In a rush of movement, she pulled the linen up over his arms and head, then away. Clutching the shirt, she shook out the garment before leaning sideways to drape it neatly at the foot of the bed. Her breasts jiggled, sweet and lush.

  A wild moan leapt into his throat. Rafe tightened his fists at his sides and fought the urge to tumble her back across the bed and be done with this torture. He could have his pantaloons freed in a thrice and be settled between her thighs, kissing her and taking her as his body was urging him to do. But he didn’t wish to alarm her, nor ruin the gradual trust building between them. Biting the edge of his lip, he fought for patience, knowing his satisfaction would be sweet in the end.

  She shifted back, her gaze falling upon his naked chest. He could see her curiosity, along with a kind of rapt fascination. Holding himself still, he let her inspect him—his broad shoulders, his long arms, and his firm chest with its thatch of dark curling hair.

  He hoped she liked what she saw. Women usually cooed when he stripped off his shirt, wanting to run their hands over his muscles and naked skin.

  But she said nothing, just swallowed and leaned down to his feet to roll off his stockings. He hid a smile, her avoidance of his pantaloons painfully obvious. She set the stockings atop his discarded shirt.

  Leaning back on his elbows, he waited, watching as she considered his last item of clothing and the prominent bulge straining against the fabric. Rafe was beginning to think he was going to have to remove the garment himself, after all, when she gathered her courage on a swift inhale and reached out to pluck at the gold buttons of his falls.

  He hadn’t thought he could get any harder, but amazingly he did, his flesh aching powerfully at the sight and sensation of her hands so near the part of him he most wanted her to touch. Near his breaking point, he clasped her arms and pulled her atop his chest. Tunneling his fingers into her hair, he crushed his lips to hers, growling all his pent-up need into her mouth.

  She made a small, mewling sound of surprise, then yielded, curling against him as she stroked a tentative palm along the side of his chest.

  “Yes,” he muttered. “Touch me. God yes, touch me.”

  At his urging, her hands began to explore, drifting over his shoulders and arms, across his chest and back, before trailing down as far as his stomach.

  And while she touched him, he was touching her. Sliding his palms over her silken skin, caressing every ripe, succulent inch of her figure, trailing his fingertips far and wide.

  Then he knew he could wait no longer.

  Julianna strained to catch a full breath, panting as her pulse raced. Her blood churned in her veins and thumped forcefully behind her temples, her heart thundering as if she were caught inside the eye of a storm. And perhaps she was, a wild, fearsome maelstrom where heat and hungry aching need were the only laws, and Rafe Pendragon her one salvation.

  He commanded her, ruled her every move, making her crave and yearn and yield in ways she would have blushed to consider only a short while ago. Writhing against him, she let him press her back into the mattress and position himself between her thighs.

  She ought to have been afraid, she knew. Ought to be flinching instead of welcoming what was to come next. But for the first time in her life she truly wanted to couple with a man.

  Pleasure caught her in a hot rush as he thrust inside—deep, then deeper still, her senses spinning outward on a dark, silken thread of euphoria. She gasped, submerged beneath an avalanche of sensation.

  I didn’t know, she thought. Hadn’t realized how glorious making love could be, nor how wonderful he would feel buried thick and strong inside her. Kissing him, she reveled in the taste and scent and sounds of their mating, her body singing in a kind of glorious joy she would never have dreamed possible.

  She called out his name as her inner muscles strained to accommodate him, adjusting to his impressive size. He was big, filling her as she’d never been filled before, stretching her nearly to the edge of her limits. But she wanted this, wanted him, hanging on while the sensations intensified to a sharp knife-edge of bliss.

  She moaned as he set a pace within her, moving in deep, penetrating strokes that he wickedly alternated with tantalizingly shallow ones. Body burning, her thoughts scattered to the four winds, her senses were utterly consumed by the demands raging inside her.

  And all she could do was hang on for the ride. Hold him with her arms and then her legs when he shifted against her, urging her to lock her ankles against his back. She heard keening, a high feminine wail that vibrated in her ears and inside her head. Is that me? she wondered, barely recognizing the sound as her own.

  Rafe was relentless, driving her on and up until she thought she quite literally might die. And even when she knew she could take no more, he pressed her further and further until there came an instant of stillness, then a jolt as if she’d been struck by lightning. Shuddering, the rapture caught her and exploded, rocking her body in great shimmering waves that wiped everything else clean.

  Above her, Rafe gripped her hips in his hands and drove himself furiously in and out. Long moments later, he shouted and stiffened, a delicious warmth filling her as he, too, found his release.

  And there in the aftermath, as she lay spent against him, she began to cry.

  Not with sorrow, but in joy.

  Chapter Six

  JULIANNA MISSED AFTERNOON tea.

  As she walked into her townhouse, she thanked her lucky stars that none of her family or friends had been expecting her to join them.

  Her body still tingling from her encounter with Rafe Pendragon, she made her way upstairs to her bedroom and ordered her maid to draw her a bath. If she didn’t have a good, hot soak now, she feared she’d barely be able to move come morning. She’d used muscles this afternoon that she suspected she’d never used before in her life.

  A tremor of remembered pleasure coursed through her.

  What a difference a few hours can make, she mused. When she’d left her house earlier today to keep the scheduled rendezvous with Pendragon, she’d steeled herself to bear the indignity to come. Her path was a noble one, she’d co
nvinced herself. Even heroic, an honorable sacrifice she was making for those she loved.

  But what she’d done today hadn’t felt like a sacrifice, not once Rafe had begun to touch her, and kiss her, and show her the glory lying dormant within herself. Instead of degradation, she’d experienced bliss. Instead of powerlessness, she’d found freedom, an awakening of senses and emotions she hadn’t even realized she possessed.

  How noble, then, to take such pleasure? she considered with irony. How heroic to tremble even now in anticipation of her next encounter with him?

  Daisy bustled in from drawing Julianna’s bath and began to assist her off with her clothes. Julianna hoped her maid didn’t notice anything amiss, didn’t catch the faint scent of bayberry on her clothing, or notice the lingering glow of recent sex on her skin.

  She waited as well to see if Daisy would say anything about her hair. To her relief, Rafe had proven an able lady’s maid, brushing out her tresses in long, efficient, yet seductive strokes. Skillfully, he had wound her heavy locks into a becoming style atop her head before securing them with the pins the pair of them had laughingly gathered from the sheets and off the floor.

  But dear Daisy said nothing, merely assisted Julianna into her robe, then let herself quietly from the room to let her mistress bath in private.

  Drawing off her robe and chemise so she could step into the tub, Julianna gazed down at herself and was glad she’d refused to let Daisy strip her to the skin. Decorating the curve of her inner thigh were a pair of pale blue bruises. She rubbed a finger over the spots and remembered Rafe kissing her there, drawing upon her flesh with an intensity that had left his mark.

  Indeed, I have been marked, she thought as she sank into the steaming water.

  Branded to the bone by Rafe Pendragon.

  Rafe.

  She sighed his name in her mind, as she leaned her head against the rim of the copper tub and closed her eyes.

  Her thoughts drifted, recalling how boneless she’d felt earlier that afternoon when he’d finished arranging her hair. Setting down the brush, he’d bent close and whispered into her ear.

  “Come earlier next time,” he murmured in a mellifluous baritone. “Come at noon so we won’t be rushed. Today only whetted my appetite, sweeting. I’ve so much more to show you. A couple of hours together simply will not do.”

  Her belly had quivered as he dusted his lips across her cheek and down her throat, his hands coming around her from behind to cup her breasts and caress them. Swallowing hard, all she’d been able to do was nod her agreement and let the delight of his touch radiate through her.

  But he isn’t here now, she scolded herself as she struggled to force him from her thoughts. Rafe Pendragon was an obligation to be kept, not a true part of her life—not her real life—and she would do well to keep her time with him neatly segregated, even in the privacy of her own mind.

  Tonight she was promised for an evening out, dinner and a play with Maris and cousin Henrietta. Harry, celebrating his last-minute escape from ruin, had sent round a note this morning saying that he and a trio of his cronies were leaving Town to attend a rousing boxing mill in the south. So it would be just the ladies tonight, and although Maris wasn’t yet officially out, Julianna could see no harm in the theater.

  Part of her wished she could cancel and spend a quiet night at home, alone, to regain her newly shaken equilibrium. But Maris had been pleading for weeks to see Mrs. Siddons play Lady Macbeth, and Julianna didn’t have the heart to disappoint her.

  With a sigh, she reached for the soap.

  “Are you enjoying the performance?” Maris asked as the house lights brightened for the interval.

  Julianna roused herself from her musings and focused on her sister’s expectant face. “Of course. Why?”

  “You seem distracted tonight.”

  Julianna fought down a blush, very much aware of how distracted she’d been. Despite her earlier vow to think no more of him, memories of her afternoon with Rafe kept assailing her thoughts and teasing her body. Wrapped inside a tantalizing, daydreamy haze that made her blood secretly hum, she’d barely heard a word of the entire first act.

  “Just a bit tired,” she defended. “Perhaps a turn about the theater will refresh me, so I’ll be sharp for the next act.”

  “Oh, let’s.” Maris sprang up from her chair. “Maybe they’re selling punch or lemonade. I could do with a cool drink; it’s so warm in here.”

  With Cousin Henrietta’s agreement, the three of them strolled out into the corridor. Cologne and burning tallow hung heavily in the air as they made their way toward the staircase that would take them down to the refreshment tables. Before they reached it, a tall, sandy-haired gentleman rounded the corner.

  Stopping, he bowed, his blue eyes alive with genial welcome. “Ladies, how do you do? What a delightful surprise to find you here tonight! I’d thought myself one of the few in attendance this evening, Society being rather thin and all at the moment.”

  She recognized him. Everyone in Society knew Burton St. George, Viscount Middleton, even though Julianna’s association with him had never moved beyond that of simple acquaintances.

  “Yes,” she said, “most families have yet to leave their country homes for Town, since the Season is still a few weeks away.”

  He nodded his agreement. “Just so. Will you do me the pleasure of making me known to your friends, Lady Hawthorne?”

  “But of course.”

  After she made the introductions, he bowed grandly over Henrietta’s hand, then transferred his attentions to Maris, whose cheeks flushed pink as a summer peony.

  “Lady Maris, may I speak for all gentlemen by saying how glad we shall be to have such beauty in our midst. Perhaps I should lend my sword to you now so you will have some means of defending yourself from the inevitable male onslaught.”

  Maris’s eyes widened at his compliment, her cheeks growing even rosier. “I’m not yet out, my lord. I have not been presented to the queen.”

  “An occasion for which to be fervently hoped. Pray tell the queen to hurry and make your acquaintance.”

  “Enough of that now, my lord,” Julianna scolded lightly, not sure if she approved of his flirtation. “If you continue, my sister’s head shall be as swollen as the hot air balloons we viewed during last year’s exhibition.”

  “Middleton,” Henrietta interrupted. “Are you by any chance related to the late David St. George?”

  Politely, the viscount turned toward the older woman. “Why yes, ma’am, I am. David St. George was my father, God rest his soul.”

  “Oh, well, fancy that. I knew your father when I was but a green girl no older than our Maris. So handsome he was, too, your father. Now, he was a man who knew how to cut a swath with the ladies.”

  “As you say, Mrs. Mayhew, my father was a fine man who found favor among both sexes. Now, where were you ladies headed when I happened upon you? Back to your box?”

  “Actually, we were in search of refreshments.”

  “Pray permit me to fetch them for you. You never know what sort of rabble you may find on the lower levels. By no means the sort gently bred females should be near.”

  Julianna frowned, thinking once again of Rafe. Did he keep a box at the theater? she wondered. Surely she would have noticed him before if he did. Then again, despite his wealth and sophistication, she knew he didn’t travel in the same social circles as she and her family. Many, in fact, would lump him in with the “rabble” to which Middleton referred, based solely on his lack of a title and the circumstances of his birth. Disturbed by the notion, she said nothing.

  Cousin Henrietta meanwhile accepted the viscount’s offer to procure their drinks. With a bow and a smile, he turned away.

  “My, what a handsome rogue!” Henrietta observed once he’d gone. “Though he must take after his mother, since he doesn’t resemble his father at all.” The older woman turned a teasing gaze on Maris. “And what did you think of his lordship, young miss? He showed a m
arked preference for you, I thought.”

  Maris fanned herself as the three of them started back to their box. “He was very elegant and dashing. Quite gentlemanly.”

  And so Middleton was, Julianna thought. The epitome of the perfect aristocrat. Strange, then, that she always experienced the oddest sense of misgiving whenever he was around.

  I am just being foolish, she told herself. The man is gracious and amiable, exactly as a gentleman ought to be. Still, whatever his nature, one thing was clear: he was far too mature for Maris.

  Deciding the conversation needed an immediate change of subject, Julianna launched into the one topic sure to divert her companions—fashion.

  Moments later, Viscount Middleton had been supplanted by talk of ribbons, sleeve lengths, and the best colors to dye hat feathers.

  Burton St. George jogged down the theater staircase, roughly elbowing his way past a pair of middle-class men when they didn’t immediately give way at his passing. He ignored their exclamations, dismissing them instantly.

  Silly old biddy, he thought as he strode forward. It had been all he could do to keep the smile on his face as he’d listened to Henrietta Mayhew prattle on about his father like some starry-eyed girl. He doubted his father had even known she existed. Addlepated old women like her ought to know their place. Even more, they ought to know how to keep their mouths shut unless spoken to directly.

  It’s what came of letting females run about without proper male guidance. Allerton really ought to take them in hand, he thought, but the boy was too weak and self-indulgent to do his familial duty. Far more apt to let his older sister lead him around by the apron strings than take a stand against her.

  Julianna Hawthorne, now there was an attractive armful. A plump little partridge just waiting to be flushed from her nest. Long ago he might have made some overtures in her direction, but had decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. Thoughtful and reserved, she had too much stubborn willfulness in her, too much bold independence. She was the sort of woman who would put up a struggle, if required.