by Anne Mallory
He touched her right hand, smoothing his fingers over her glove. “You are wearing your armor.”
She tried to tug her hand away, but he kept it captured in his. “Silk can hardly be a good shield,” she said.
“No? It is a barrier. I can hardly touch you through them.”
“You have touched me in far more intimate places.”
“Mmmm. Intimate for most people, but mayhap not your most intimate place.” He ran his finger down the material.
She tried to remove her hands again, more casually. “I hardly think hands are an intimate place.”
He held fast. “But the definition invokes your most private feeling, your deepest nature.”
“My mother used to say that a proper lady was never without her gloves.” The dual nature of the comment was not lost on her.
“Even the most straitlaced of ladies sometimes goes without.” His fingers pulled along hers, from the crevices to the tips. He gripped the edge of one and pulled, the material stretching on her fingertip the barest bit. He touched the next one and pulled, that one stretching as well. Her heart picked up speed as she watched his motions, felt the pull.
“Don’t you have business to attend to?”
Betrothal documents to sign? Wedding plans to make?
He lifted her chin, making her meet his eyes. “I am attending to the most important business.”
Another finger stretched. Three pulls of fabric gripping with relentless need to the tips, the gloves molded to her in the best of shields. Expensive, fine.
“I want to lay you completely bare, Miranda.”
“Have you not already?” Her voice nearly shook. The whisper of it vibrating her throat.
He cocked his head but said nothing. His eyes tightened before his expression smoothed, hiding his true response to the question. He pulled the silk over her smallest finger, his warm, strong fingers sure around the slim digit. No hesitation in the motion. Stripping her bare indeed.
He pulled the fabric slowly toward him, revealing more with each inch. The soft skin above her elbow. The sensitive areas under her wrist. The snow of the glove hesitated at the heel of her palm, and she drew in a breath. Let him find what he would. She tried to look away as the fabric continued its descent, but she couldn’t.
Morbid fascination froze her. What might he do when he saw them in dry, full light? Not in the water of a pool, nor the darkness of a chamber. Examining the roughened edges of her heel, the chap that began up the side of her thumb and continued into the broken nail beds, the ink stains. Clean hands, but irreparably blemished. Nothing like the beautiful skin Georgette maintained.
She closed her eyes, unwilling to see his expression as he turned her hands in his strong, warm palms.
“I would bathe them in milk, if you wanted. If you wished to heal them. Or simply clasp them to me as they are, because they are part of you.”
Her eyes shot open and her throat closed. It was hard to swallow over the sudden rush of emotion. “Oh?”
If only she could be wittier, come up with something snappy and wise. But she was just Miranda. And Miranda Chase said things like “Oh?” in the face of comments that puddled her into a soppy mess.
He brought her forefinger to his mouth. “Yes.” His lips closed over the tip, pulling it in, the point of his tongue swirling around her flesh.
His mouth slowly released the tip, and his fingers wrapped around the nape of her neck, pulling her closer. “Yes,” he whispered against her lips.
“Your lips are the most delicious treat I’ve ever tasted. And I would still love them were they chapped and dry. Still drink from them like the finest crystal because they would give me the essence of you.”
She had always assumed that she would experience the thrill of passionate love through a written text. Internally and with great joy. Perhaps a softer kind of love with a husband. The kind of love her parents had enjoyed—soft words and respect—her mother’s strict decorum keeping them respectfully apart in the physical sense, at least in any way outside of a closed door.
He lowered her to his bed, watching her, his eyes dark and promising. Branding her with some bit of leftover fervency from when he’d thought her gone.
Here was a man who challenged her in all ways. Who thrilled her intellectually on paper, who captivated her with his words, who physically flooded her senses. Who was every man that she had desired on any level she could comprehend.
His fingers, smooth and strong, hooked beneath her knee and drew a slow path to her center, circling the indentation there.
She was laid bare. Not just in the physical sense as he slowly stripped each piece of clothing from her, smoothing his hands along her skin, kissing each curve, but naked in truth. Belonging to him, even if he didn’t know it fully yet.
Her eyes lit upon the ceiling, the moldings, simpler here than in the London house but still expensive, tasteful, cupids leaping and frolicking, shooting the unwary. The gilded edge apparent on every surface of his life.
His mouth moved over her, and her lips parted on a breath, back straining in an arch.
A sweep of his mouth, his tongue. She could hardly think. Could hardly breathe. The breath left in her lungs panting out between her lips.
It was her move. To stay with him. To be his mistress. A step up for a woman like her. Georgette would be over the moon for her. He’d shower her with gifts. Gifts she didn’t need. And take her to places she had always dreamed of visiting. With the ones she loved.
Fingers on her thighs, gripping her backside. Setting claim to her skin.
But being a mistress didn’t preclude her from loving him. It didn’t preclude him from loving her, though she had no notion if he felt such strong feelings for her. But he felt something. She’d never be in this position if she didn’t know that much.
Lips kissing her stomach, the undersides of her breasts. Her fingers automatically threading through his hair. Strong thighs clasped between her knees.
She wanted him. At the moment she’d take him however she could have him, and she’d think of the future later.
She touched his arm, strong, long, and beautiful. His fingers capable of such beauty of words and such dismissive coldness.
She pushed him to his side, wanting to touch him in the same way. Wanting to pull every reaction from him. Groans and passion-hooded eyes. To make it so that he could only think of her in this moment, this scene. Here, he was hers.
She could kiss inside his elbows and stroke along his ribs. She could nip his throat and wrap around his warmth. Long, slow strokes, then shorter ones at the tip. Listening to him breathe like she had. Make sounds like she did. Give in to everything she was.
And then she was on her back again, cupids hazy in her view, dark, chiseled, lovely features inches from hers. And he was within her, completing her. The dark sword of Mr. Pitts, the soft feathers of Eleutherios, the powerful stride of the viscount, the seductive pleasure of Maxim.
Truly, she simply loved everything about him.
The rush of emotion filled her. And she uttered three little words. Words that she couldn’t take back, even should she choose to do so. Words from her heart. Lost and bare, given to him to crush, to keep safe.
A vow.
His eyes pinned her—disbelieving, desiring, hungry—and long, deep strokes pushed her over the edge, arching into him, and repeating the vow over and over again.
She put her cheek upon the palm of her bare hand, her knees bent, toes in the air, the silken sheets curving around and under her. The air was full of languid entreaty and relaxing embraces. The invitation in the sheets to roll about in the silken embrace. To while away the hours of the day.
His fingers traced imaginary lines on her back. The fingers of his left hand. She didn’t think he realized it in the laziness of the moment.
“I could write all over you. Mark you with ink that claims you as mine.”
She pulled her hand along the valleys of the silk folds, toes kissing in the a
ir, embracing together. “And then I’d be nearly unrecognizable, stained and Stygian.”
His finger drew something in the center of her back. “I’d recognize you. Always.”
And she could almost imagine as she looked over her shoulder and into the reflection of the glass that it had been a heart there in the center of the design.
Chapter 19
Dear Mr. Pitts,
I have always found it to be careful what I wish for. For sometimes it is not the true desire of my heart, but rather the way I have been taught to think.
From the desk of Miranda Chase
The carriage rocked slowly as they made their way to the opera house. Max wondered at the change that had taken place in a few short weeks. Her fingers no longer gripped the seat cushion. The lines around her eyes no longer grew pinched and creased. She didn’t keep her weight distributed, body spread to dive from the carriage or cover her head in case some disaster befell her.
She seemed to be able to overcome whatever she wanted to as soon as she put her mind to it. He envied the ability, even as getting her to take those first tentative steps was what had prompted many of his plans in the first place.
That and the insatiable need to be near her, to speak with her, to have her smile at him.
She smiled at him now. A steady, determined smile.
She loved him.
Thinking it made everything inside him clench. He couldn’t even chastise himself for the weakness of it, like the emotion brimming from the sonnets he loved, for the feeling was too all-encompassing. It tore and bit and ached.
They entered the opera house, and the whispers of the crowd turned in their direction. He had used the machine of whispered lips too many times not to pay partial attention to what was being said.
The princess unmasked. Not Russian, then the talk after the Hannings’ was true. English. Who is she?
Normally he would turn it in his favor. But tonight, tonight was different. The gossip touched him in an uncomfortable way. The stage not set by his design, nor in a reaction to his parents. For once, he was in the thrall and pull of someone else. Pulled along by Miranda, befuddled by her acceptance. Stumbling along, feigning confidence by escorting her here.
Attending the opera had been somewhere in his initial grand plan. Having her as an active part of his life, should all the things he hoped to have with her bear true. And they had borne more fruit than he could have ever wished.
She loved him.
Now that he was here, though, he didn’t like the way the men were watching her. Weighing her as they walked past. Taking bets on when he would tire of her. Of when they could lay their own claim. Men who wouldn’t have taken notice of her on the street. Who had no care of the beauty and depth inside of her. Her light, her intelligence, her warmth. Who were simply seeing her as his conquest, something new and interesting, another player to be debauched.
And why wouldn’t they? That is all he’d ever given to this stage. Never seeking anything more.
More whispers followed them as they ascended the stairs to his box.
Look at the way Downing touches her.
Has he finally taken a mistress?
Who is she?
Did you see her necklace?
Miranda looked beautiful. Delicious. Far superior to the necklace he had given her. The one she had stared at for a long time in the mirror after he’d clasped it around her neck.
She had sat so still, he had thought for a moment she had turned to stone. But something had loosened in her again now. Sitting gracefully and leaning forward in her seat, gazing down at the stage to the preentertainment taking place. Forgetting her discomfort at being stared at. Or maybe just accepting it.
She loved him. She’d said it.
And wasn’t this life a good one, the one he would give her? Freedom and independence. The ability to move on should he prove less than ideal. He looked at the women in the boxes around them. Some laughing gaily, some boldly showing their skills. A few loftily gazing, looking for new protection. Many more avidly searching for the same.
A coiled knot formed in his gut as one woman’s eyes surreptitiously searched the faces around her, a feigned laugh upon her lips. The look was repeated on the carefully constructed features of the others as well. The knot tightened, cutting.
There was a sort of tension to the scene that he’d never paid attention to before, never cared to see previously. Even the women who appeared to be having a grand time had a look about them. Trying to please and entice their partners. Both predator and prey. As if it were…paid work, and they simply doing their job, trying to retain their positions.
And wasn’t that truly the case?
Mistresses, with their freedom and passion, were also constrained by the same. Their security and protection dependent on their benefactors. Independent and dependent within the same space.
A sliver of the knot shredded and splintered, stuck in his midsection. But Miranda would never need to worry about that. For he never intended to let her go.
The splinter grew, heedless of any rational thoughts.
He could keep her at his country estate. In his town house. Protect her from the looks. Protect himself from his violent reaction to them. Protect her from any needless insecurities.
She would probably acquiesce to staying in the background—she loved him.
The knotted rope, now burning, twisted inside him.
Words freely given. The same declarations that shredded his stomach to ribbons and ripped through his shields—great holes of leaking emotion.
Miranda was so easily able to love and give of herself. She had struck up friendships with his servants, even the crusty, grumpy ones. She didn’t hold on to bitterness and triumphed over fear. She was the type of person who would always find a new friend or engender a confidence.
All in all, he was fairly certain that his need of her likely exceeded her need of him.
The thought made him still.
She was a vibrant woman. Bursting with passion beneath a gentle, understated exterior. It had been part of the initial draw. Wanting to release that passion, to see what she’d do with it. To see what he could teach her and learn—take—from her in return. To have her look at him in the manner that she spoke of, and to, his paper personas.
His eyes latched onto movement at the door as Chatsworth entered the box. Fury replaced the stark terror that had suddenly gripped him. He should have told the hall staff that they did not want to be disturbed.
Messerden clumsily stumbled in after. The notorious gossip, always wanting to discover any and all information first. Max had used him well over the years to turn the gossip how he wanted. Undoubtedly, he was here in hopes of receiving a priceless tale.
Chatsworth made himself comfortable, and Messerden spread himself into a chair, nearly missing the seat as he was so busy staring at the back of Miranda’s head. Obviously trying to determine who she was, as he had every time he’d crossed her path. Trying to fit her into a slot of the gossip he was formulating.
Miranda. Sweet Miranda.
Chatsworth followed Max’s eyes, then turned to him. “Settling down in truth, Downing?” he said knowingly. A constant mistress to have alongside a constant wife. Chatsworth had had one for years.
“Chatsworth.” He nodded coolly.
He saw Miranda stiffen, her eyes continuing to watch the festivities below.
“Gads, man, you could have let me know earlier.” Messerden turned to Max as well. “Means I’ve lost eighty pounds on you.”
“I’m sure your pockets can afford it.” He had taken Messerden for a hundred times that amount over all the years they’d known each other.
“Still wish you had told me earlier though.” Messerden eyed Miranda over his red nose. “Could have made a pretty penny. Thought this one would be your usual fare—seduced and dumped.”
Max had never liked the man less.
Chatsworth smirked. “Downing is turning over a new leaf.”
<
br /> Messerden’s eyes narrowed, then he smiled slyly. “And how is your lovely daughter, Chatsworth?”
“She is well. The perfect girl. Had to leave the Peckhurst rout earlier due to a slight headache, but she should be right as sunshine come the morning. Ready to sparkle, as usual.”
Messerden turned back to regard Miranda, his gaze crafty and fixed. Max didn’t like it in the least. Even in his cups, Messerden could be counted upon to be perceptive at awkward times. Max had needed to funnel the man’s interest more times than he could count.
And right now he looked like he was beginning all sorts of new bets. How long Miranda would last. When she might meet Charlotte. What the first awkward meeting might entail.
The bets would be on the books as soon as Messerden reached White’s. Max barely restrained his itching fingers from wrapping around the man’s neck. It would be a relief to the roiling emotions within him. Tossing the man over the balcony. Maybe with Chatsworth along for the ride to the orchestra below.
Or he could simply hide Miranda. Save her from the speculation and gossip.
Tuck her away after he’d rejoiced in seeing her bloom. Something inside of him died at the thought.
He’d make sure they never met—Charlotte and Miranda. He’d make sure Miranda wouldn’t wilt beneath a torrent of petty gossip.
And he’d find a way to make sure she needed him as fiercely as he needed her.
He turned to start weaving a spell around Messerden. He’d not let those bets reach the books.
Perhaps then he could loosen the unbreakable knots within.
Miranda tried not to listen to what the men were saying. The preperformances on the stage were almost at a close, and she cast about for something else to focus upon. She glanced at the boxes around them, blushing a bit as she spied a man and woman engaged in something that should have been a little more, well, private.
She turned her eyes to look at the boxes across from them instead. At least from this distance she could pretend that someone had dropped something to the floor and was merely taking a long time in picking it up.
