A Duke For All Seasons

by Mia Marlowe

  “You are far too consumed with my private affairs.”

  “Because I wish you to see you settled,” Neville said. “You devote a great deal of time and energy to securing four women a year. If instead you found one you could love for the rest of your life, you'd be a much happier man.”

  “Granger, I’m delighted you’ve found your Christine, but just because you've decided to marry, it doesn't signify that all men should.” Sebastian sipped his brandy. His father had devoted himself to one woman and died a disappointed wretch. "Besides, what makes you think I'm not happy?"

  “You haven’t got an heir.”

  “There’s time for that.” A duchess was on his horizon, but her shadowy figure was the far in the distance. A woman might be trusted to bear a man’s heir with careful watching, but he knew better than to trust one with his heart. “And even once I marry, there’s nothing to prevent me from continuing to order my personal life to suit me. A wife should have no cause for complaint so long as a man is discreet.”

  Heaven knew his mother hadn’t been.

  There was a rap on the door. Neville hopped up to open it and Arabella St. George stepped into the elegant suite with the same alluring presence she projected on the operatic stage. She was a diva to her bones.

  “Good evening, Lord Granger.” She offered Neville her hand. “Lovely to see you again. Are you joining His Grace and me for supper?”

  Sebastian saw him fight the urge to swear.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Neville said as he dropped a kiss on her gloved knuckles. "However, I hope you'll consider another recital for my mother and her friends very soon."

  “Please tell the countess I'd be delighted,” Miss St. George said.

  Even her speaking voice was musical and sultry. Sebastian was stirred by the mere sound of her.

  “The opera company's season will soon be over. We might arrange something then. An evening of liebeslieder to celebrate your engagement, perhaps?”

  “Enchanting. My fiancée adores German love songs.” Neville scooped up the stack of books Sebastian had brought him, including the Don Giovanni libretto, and made a hasty exit. “Goodnight, Winterhaven. I trust you’ll think about what I said.”

  Not bloody likely. Why should he settle on one woman when the world was filled with the gorgeous creatures? Sebastian sent his friend silent thanks for leaving so quickly and closed the door behind him.

  “May I take your wrap?” Not waiting for her answer, he stepped behind her and slid the velvet cloak down her silken arms. A few tendrils escaped the chignon at her nape and a whiff of violets tickled his nostrils. Anticipation clenched his gut.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Call me Winterhaven.” He crossed to the sideboard and poured two glasses of the best French vintage The Peacock Tail’s cellar boasted.

  “Winterhaven.” She rolled the syllables around on her tongue as if she were tasting them. “Is that your name?”

  “For all normal purposes.”

  “Dining with me is not normal for you,” she said as she accepted a glass. “My friends call me Bella. What do you think? Shall you and I be friends?”

  “I sincerely hope so.” Sebastian felt himself tumbling into her dark eyes.

  “Then what is your name?”

  Against his better judgment, he gave her the name only his mother had ever used for him.

  “Sebastian. I like it. It suits you.” She touched the rim of her glass to his. “To a lovely dinner.”

  He smiled down at her. “And to dessert.”

  “Selecting a mistress involves more than finding a pleasing bed companion. A gentleman must be sure the woman is an ornament to his arm and a credit to his reputation as a man of discriminating taste.”

  ~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress

  Chapter 3

  “And when the second act began, the tenor and mezzo-soprano were nowhere to be found, so William, our stage manager, had to send in their understudies.” Arabella took a sip of her wine.

  Sebastian couldn’t tear his gaze from her lips. Even though it felt like something a callow youth might claim, he truly did envy the glass because it touched her red ribbon of a mouth.

  “Well, the principal singers were furious of course,” she went on, “but the maestro told them that if the rest of the company had to wait till after the final curtain to seek their lover’s couch, they could too.”

  Sebastian smiled indulgently. It had been a while since he met a woman who was so frank about matters of the flesh.

  “Of course, the mezzo was just covering for the tenor,” Arabella said before she popped a bite of orange into her mouth. “He was actually in the property mistress’s closet with one of the baritones from the chorus.”

  Sebastian laughed. Arabella St. George told such engagingly ribald stories. They tripped off her tongue as easily as her high notes. She regaled Sebastian with naughty tales of the backstage doings at the opera company and sly little tidbits about heads of state for whom she'd sung private recitals. He easily envisioned her moving smoothly among his peers as they made the rounds of demimonde haunts, charming everyone as she went.

  The only problem was that she seemed a bit distracted sometimes. He caught her gaze flitting about the room now and then as if she were looking for something in particular. It seemed out of character—as if the lady were in actuality a cutpurse looking for a likely victim. But then she’d flash him such a beguiling smile, he decided he’d imagined the whole thing.

  By the time they reached the main course, he was thoroughly convinced he’d made the correct choice for his next mistress. Then she stumbled badly.

  “But I’ve occupied the conversation for far too long,” she said. “Tell me about yourself, Sebastian.”

  He shrugged. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  That was far too wide a net. He decided to limit it. “I am a Whig in matters political.”

  She laughed. “Our costume mistress has a parrot that claims to be a Whig if you offer him a cracker, a Tory if you give him cake! Rather like a real politician, I should think. You’ve told me nothing.”

  That was his aim. The whole point of having a mistress was having an entertainment, not being one. “I am the 8th Duke of Winterhaven.”

  “An accident of birth.” She waved away the attribute that so entranced his other women. “Your title tells me about your station, not about you. Tell me something you like.”

  He frowned. None of his other women ever contradicted him or pushed him to reveal himself like this. “I like you,” he said, not so sure he truly did now.

  She raised her glass in salute. “Flattering, but you’re stalling, sir. Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  While he was perfectly willing to share his body with this delectable woman, he always kept a firmly erected barrier between himself and his mistresses. When he looked into her eyes, he realized he’d not advance his cause a bit by holding back.

  “I . . . like raising horses on my country estate.”

  She smiled. “Good. Why?”

  “Because it’s the done thing.”

  “Oh, how deplorably dull. Never say that’s the real reason or I’ll believe you haven’t an original idea in your head.”

  By thunder, no man had ever spoken to him thusly. Certainly no woman. “Miss St. George—”

  “Bella, please,” she corrected. “Do you know why I sing, Sebastian? Because it moves me.” She leaned toward him and he forced himself not to be distracted by her décolletage. “Music is a demanding god. I can’t have a normal life because of the odd hours, the travel, and the slightly disreputable company. But when I sing, the glory of sound shivers over me. Music gives me so much, that the dusty theatres, the despicable critics, the terror that something might go horribly wrong—none of those things matter. I’m never more fully alive than when I’m pouring out my soul in song.”

  “That’s what moves me.” She laid her
hand on his. “I want to know what moves you. Now, tell me what you like about raising horses.”

  He liked the smell of a horse, the dusty warm scent of a gelding’s shaggy coat on a brisk fall morning. He liked their soft noses and sweet breath. The homely comfort of a low whicker of greeting when he approached. He loved giving a spirited mount its head and flying across the—

  “Freedom,” he said softly. “I love the freedom of riding. The speed. The thrill of controlling a powerful animal with only my knees, reins and will.”

  Her smile washed over him. “You don’t have to be the 8th Duke of Winterhaven on the back of a horse.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said, surprised that she’d divined his deeper thoughts so accurately.

  “Someday, Sebastian, I should like to see you ride.”

  * * * * *

  It’s not here. Arabella rifled through Sebastian’s greatcoat pockets while he stepped out to see what was keeping their dessert. Oh, God, it’s not here.

  All during supper, she’d furtively surveyed the sumptuous room, looking for the libretto. There weren’t that many horizontal surfaces where he might have laid it aside absently. She checked the small bookshelf, but there were only a few novels whose spines had never been cracked. The escritoire in the corner was locked, but surely he wouldn’t have felt the need to place the libretto under lock and key.

  Unless the duke had found the envelope tucked within Don Giovanni’s pages and opened it. Unless he knew.

  “Calm down,” she ordered herself. Sebastian was a very closed off, very private person, but she’d been able to read him fairly well. She’d know if he had found it.

  She brushed her fingertips over the window ledges to see if he’d propped the libretto there. The door opened behind her and she turned guiltily to face him as he came back in, followed by a footman.

  “Looking for something?” Sebastian asked.

  “Looking at something,” she said smoothly. “Did you know you can see St. Paul’s from here? It’s really quite lovely by starlight.”

  “And some things are lovely even without benefit of starlight.” His appraising gaze washed her with masculine approval.

  She smiled at his compliment and settled back at the dining table where the footman put the finishing touches on their dessert. With a fine fork, he pricked the sponge cakes resting in shallow dessert-dishes. Then he poured on raisin wine and brandy in equal parts and once the cakes were thoroughly drenched, he sifted sugar on each of them. Just when Arabella didn’t think she could handle another ounce of decadence, he spooned a generous dollop of custard alongside each cake.

  The footman bowed and left them to enjoy their sweets.

  “I’ll never fit into my second act costume if I eat all that.”

  “Try it before you decide not to like it,” Sebastian said, forking up a bite and offering it to her.

  She opened her mouth and let the flavors burst on her tongue. “Oh, my! That’s worth a trip to the tailor.”

  He offered her another and she took it.

  “Oh, there’s a bit by the side of your mouth,” he said.

  She ran the tip of her tongue around her lips.

  “No, you didn’t quite . . . allow me.” He leaned over and licked the corner of her mouth, right at the juncture of smooth skin and moist intimacy. Then he pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes.

  She wasn’t sure what he saw in hers, but she saw . . . loneliness in his and her chest ached.

  Then he kissed her.

  His kiss in her dressing room had been practiced, smooth. This one wasn’t. There was no sense of seduction, no hurried taking. It was more a gentle exploration. His mouth slanted over hers with surprising tenderness.

  Then the kiss took a decidedly wicked turn. He stole her breath and nipped her bottom lip. His tongue made rough love her to mouth and her whole body sang. She draped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. He stifled a groan.

  “No, this isn’t . . . “ He yanked himself away, taking a deep breath, obviously bridling himself. “I don’t usually conduct my affairs in this manner.”

  “I thought it was a grand beginning myself,” she said with a chuckle. “How do you usually conduct your affairs?”

  “In a thoroughly civilized way. Before we proceed, it is important—”

  “Proceed to what?”

  “To . . . become better acquainted,” he said, neatly sidestepping the obvious. “I have a contract I should like you to look over and sign.”

  “Indeed?”

  “It’s all quite standard, I assure you and generous to a fault, I’m told.”

  “What sort of contract?”

  He walked over to the escritoire, unlocked it and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Then he returned to the table. “It’s all here, laid out neatly. You will receive a liberal stipend for each of the three months we are together and at our parting, a pension to be drawn out for a number of years. I enjoy giving my mistress gifts, so if you prefer emeralds over rubies, be sure to let me know.”

  “You expect me to become your mistress?” She leafed through the contract in awe.

  “I should think that's obvious.”

  “And the contract is for a predetermined length of time?”

  “Yes, three months is optimal for—”

  “No.” She laid the contract on top of her brandy-soaked cake. A ring of gooey moisture soaked through the paper and made the neat script run together.

  He couldn't have looked more surprised if she'd slapped him. “No?”

  “No, I won’t sign this contract. I won’t become your mistress.” Then she rose, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I can't promise to stay with you for three months. I might be hopelessly bored with you before that time is up, but . . .”—she walked her fingers down his chest to the buttons of his trousers—“I will become your lover.”

  His breath hissed over his teeth. “When?”

  She kissed his lips. Bella liked men. She liked Sebastian. And she needed more time to look for that envelope. “Right now.”

  “The first physical encounter with a prospective mistress sets the tone for all future interludes.

  A wise man makes his expectations clear.”

  ~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress

  Chapter 4

  Sebastian knew it was the height of foolishness to engage in love play with a woman without benefit of a contract. She might decide to make more of their relationship than it was. She might make demands upon him he was unprepared to meet. An intimate encounter with a woman was not something a prudent man stumbled into without protecting his interests.

  And his future freedom.

  But at the moment, Bella's mouth on his made any thoughts of prudence flee away.

  He loved the way she tasted, sweet with a hint of raisin wine and a splash of brandy. Her scent engulfed him, warm and musky. Her body pressed against his, her softness melding into his hardness. She didn't kiss like any woman he'd ever known. Usually his mistresses passively accepted his attentions. They took their cue from his level of passion, matching him surely but unwilling to initiate anything.

  Bella took the lead, teasing him with her tongue and then withholding it. She kissed his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. A playful nip on his earlobe sent his groin into pleasurable agony.

  “Bella,” he murmured, not sure his voice would even work.

  She pulled away and looked up at him, her lips kiss-swollen. “I like the way you said my name just then. It sounds as if you want me. Need me.”

  Her words were a dash of cold water. The 8th Duke of Winterhaven didn’t need anyone. He cleared his throat. “I do want you.” He plucked a couple pins from her hair and ran his fingers through the length that uncoiled. “That’s not in dispute.”

  She caught up his hand and pressed a lover’s kiss on his palm. He fought the urge to groan with wanting.

  “But you don’t need me?” she asked.

  “Bella, I . . .” He clamped
his lips shut. A duke, a man for that matter, ought not admit to need.

  “Well, that’s something of a challenge for me then,” she said with a sly grin. “I shall have to make you need me.”

  The thought amused him. As if anyone could make him do anything he didn’t wish. She wrapped her slender arms around his neck and turned her face up to him again. He claimed her mouth without further invitation.

  “No, no,” she said after a few moments, sliding her hands down so her palms pressed against his chest. “You’re kissing me by rote.”

  “What?” No woman had ever complained of his kisses.

  “Don't misunderstand. Your kisses would turn most women to water. When you kissed me before, it certainly weakened my knees, but this one was too practiced, too predictable. So many seconds slanted this way, so many turned the other. In another moment, I’ll be presented with your tongue.” She cocked her head at him. “A lady could set her pendant watch by that kiss.”

  He pulled away from her. She was either the most intriguing woman he’d ever met or the most infuriating. He wasn’t sure which.

  “Don’t take it badly. I see so much potential, so much to hope for in you, Sebastian.”

  That’s what he was afraid of. She was angling for more than the post as his mistress. It was inconceivable that anything beyond a light dalliance could exist between a peer of the realm and an opera singer. But he’d lost total control over this encounter the moment she refused to sign the contract.

  “Do you know what I think?” she said.

  “Have I any reason to hope I can persuade you not to tell me?”

  She laughed musically while her gaze flitted around the room. Again, he was struck by the odd sensation that she was looking for something in particular. Then her dark eyes settled on him.

  “I think,” she said as she walked toward him with the sinuous grace of a she-leopard, “you’ve been spoiled by the intimate acquaintance of too many women.”