by Mia Marlowe
“Yes.” Her shoulders sagged. “And the father of my daughter.”
She had a child. That should have made Arabella even less appealing as a potential mistress, but the catch in her voice tugged at his heart.
“Where is your daughter?”
She turned and met his gaze. “As far away from me as I can bear. I know I'm not fit to raise a child, not with the hours I keep and the travel, never mind the general strangeness of theatre people. There was never any question of marrying her father. I'd broken it off with Fernand once I realized he only wanted to use me for his cause, before I discovered I was bearing his child. My Lisette lives with my sister and her husband. They've never been blessed with children so they're raising her as their own. I send them money faithfully for her care, but they love her dearly, and would have taken her regardless.” Her chin trembled. “She calls me 'Auntie Bella' when I visit her. It shouldn't hurt, but it does.”
She swiped away the single tear that spilled over her eyelid. “I suppose you despise me as unnatural for abandoning my child.”
Her words knifed through his gut. Another mother who'd left her child sprang up in his mind's eye. He could still smell her perfume, sickly sweet and laden with essence of lilac. To this day, he couldn't abide them and had ordered every bush on his estate eradicated as if it were a patch of cankerworts.
But Sebastian's mother hadn't left him because it was in his best interests. She'd abandoned a five year old Sebastian to his stoic, distant father in order to run away with her lover. And never looked back.
“I don't despise you,” Sebastian said. Arabella St. George had done the best she could for her daughter under the circumstances. The child wasn't tainted with bastardy. She was being raised by people who loved her.
And Arabella obviously suffered for her choice. If his mother had ever had second thoughts, Sebastian certainly wasn't aware of them.
“I was approached by a man the last time I was in Paris, who told me he had people watching my sister's home, watching Lisette. He gave me the envelope and a description of the man who would collect it from me in London. If I didn't do what they asked,” she said, her voice edged with agitation, “Vicomte Gimois would exercise his rights and take her. I'd never see Lisette again.”
“If a nobleman wants to claim a child as his, he's usually praised for it.”
“That's not what Fernand will do.” Her face crumpled in fear. “You don't know him. He's ruthless and cruel. Lisette is nothing to him but a tool to be used. He's an assassin. He'll kill her if I don't do what he wants. But you fit the description I'd been given for my London contact and that's why I gave the envelope to you. Then Fernand came and it's all such a horrible muddle. Don't you see?” She grasped both his lapels. “I have to deliver that note.”
She pressed her body flush with his and stood tiptoe to kiss him, tentatively at first, then in a heated rush that went straight to Sebastian's groin. Her mouth was a wonder and he was pulled headfirst into her dark sensual heat. Her hands slid down his back and kneaded his buttocks. He groaned into her mouth.
Then, without stopping their deep kiss, she made a little room between them so she could undo the buttons over each of his hipbones. Her hands invaded his trousers and all rational thought fled from his mind.
Arabella wasn’t bluffing when she said she’d do 'anything' to secure his help.
“A gentleman should take pains to insure that important decisions regarding his mistress not be made when his mind is compromised by the requirements of his body.”
~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress
Chapter 7
Arabella teased Sebastian's groin with the nearness of her questing fingers, but denied him the relief of her direct touch. White-hot wanting seared him. Her kiss was a drug, a mind-altering elixir more powerful than any poppy extract in a London opium den. Her hands fluttering over his groin threatened to reduce him to mindless incoherence.
“Help me, Sebastian,” she whispered, between peppering kisses down his neck.
She grasped his shaft and his eyes rolled back in his head.
He lifted her onto the desk and rucked up her skirt. The heavy walnut furnishing had been in the family since before Cromwell. Many a time, Sebastian had watched his father poring over Chaucer or laboring on the estate ledgers behind the venerable piece.
The ancient desk had borne up under plenty of ducal occupation and diversion, but never anything like this.
The thought of the long line of his disapproving forbearers might have been what gave Sebastian the strength to stop, but he still possessed the presence of mind to make a rational decision on his own. Much as he wanted her, he couldn't trust this woman.
He grasped Arabella's wrists and pulled her hands from his trousers. He held her immobile while he willed his heart to stop galloping in his chest. The scent of her arousal tickled his nostrils and the look of abject need on her lovely face nearly weakened his resolve.
She's a traitor to her king, he reminded himself between heaving breaths. My king.
“Do not think, madam, that you may purchase my assistance with your sweet slit,” he said as soon as he trusted his voice not to rasp with need.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why not?” she said through clenched teeth. “You thought to purchase use of my body for the next three months with your bloody contract.”
He released her hands and stepped back, but the effort was Herculean. The way she was seated on the old desk, knees spread, her skirt hiked above the top of her lacy pantalets with one stocking bunched at her ankle--it was the most erotic pose he'd ever seen. He rearranged his small clothes and buttoned his drop-front trousers. Since he was fully roused, it was a difficult trick. When he looked back at her again she'd pulled down her skirt, but she was still perched on the desk.
“It appears,” he said woodenly, “that we have sufficiently established that neither of us can be bought.”
He walked around to the other side of the desk and rang for Cobb. She hopped down and twisted her fingers together in nervousness.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, white-lipped. “Summon the magistrate?”
“No.” He tugged down his waistcoat, but nothing would disguise his current state. He sat in the leather desk chair before Cobb arrived. “I intend to protect the Crown's interest. And incidentally, yours.”
Relief weakened her knees. Arabella sank into one of the heavy Tudor chairs flanking the small fireplace as Sebastian's butler entered.
“Contact our most reliable Bow Street Runner and ask for a complete dossier on one Fernand de Lisle, also known as Viscount Gimois, currently attached to the French embassy,” Sebastian said crisply. “I want known associates, current whereabouts and as well as the usual curriculum vitae, military training, weapon of choice, etc.”
Arabella bit her lip to keep from interrupting. What good would that do? If Fernand learned someone had taken an interest in his doings, it would only enrage him. And innocent people got hurt when Fernand was angry.
“Very good, Your Grace. It will take a couple days.” Mr. Cobb made notes on a small pad of paper.
“Tell him I need his best speed, but not to sacrifice thoroughness,” Sebastian added. “Oh, and be sure he understands discretion is paramount. The subject is not to know he is being investigated.
“Of course, Your Grace, will there be anything else?”
“Yes, I want de Lisle watched, surreptitiously. If he puts so much as a toe out of line, I wish to know of it.”
Mr. Cobb nodded. “Immediately, sir.”
“In addition, there is another matter of some delicacy and importance. There is a certain family I wish to safeguard, but they are not to know they have been brought under my protection,” Sebastian said. “Miss St. George, the name of your brother-in-law and the location of his residence, if you please.”
Arabella's breath caught in her throat. Sebastian was going to protect her Lisette. If he trotted out that ridiculous contract again
, she'd sign it without a second thought. Anything to repay this bounty. She gave Mr. Cobb the information he needed.
“Special attention is to be given to the child,” the duke said. “We have reason to believe she might be in danger. I want regular reports on her well-being. Is there anything else you require, Miss St. George?”
She shook her head. So that was the full power and majesty of a dukedom. All he need do was give the word and her problems faded away. But he didn't know Fernand, and she did. “However, you should be aware that the Vicomte is formidable. It would be a mistake for you to underestimate him.”
“And it is a mistake for you to underestimate me.” Sebastian's dark eyes flashed a warning.
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said, using his title for Mr. Cobb’s benefit. “I ask your pardon and thank you for your assistance.”
He waved her thanks away as if the fact that he’d just assured her daughter’s safety was a small matter. “Now I think we have delayed your ride long enough. Cobb, please escort Miss St. George to the stable and see that Fletcher saddles the mount of her choice. Then return with all speed. Another matter which requires our attention has just occurred to me.”
Then Sebastian pulled a sheaf of papers from his desk and buried his nose in them, clearly dismissing her.
“Aren't you riding, too?” she asked.
“If I find I can spare the time. In the meanwhile, take Fletcher with you. My head groom is quite knowledgeable and will show you around the estate.”
She followed Mr. Cobb out, her chest aching strangely at Sebastian's cold dismissal. She’d heard he was called The Ice Duke.
Now she knew why.
* * * * *
As soon as Bella left, Sebastian paced his study, trying to make his body settle.
Fool, he cursed himself. The woman disordered his entire life and he rewarded her by helping her. If Neville named him cork-brained, he wouldn't be far wrong. At least Sebastian wasn't making her privy to all his plans. By the time Cobb returned, Sebastian was back behind his desk.
“I have a commission for an expert forger and will need someone whose utmost discretion can be counted upon. Summon that artist we used last time. Cavalli, I believe,” Sebastian said. “And make sure Mr. Harris has a gang of dependable men available on short notice.”
“Very good, sir. Where would you like them positioned?”
“London, I should think,” Sebastian said. “That'll be all.”
But as the butler turned to go, Sebastian stopped him. “Oh, and Cobb, tell the runner I need a full dossier on someone else as well.”
“Who, Your Grace?”
“Arabella St. George,” he said. “And send a case of that Spanish port to Lord Granger.”
“Very good, sir. Would you like to include a note?”
“No. It's to settle a wager,” Sebastian said. “Neville will know which one.”
“If a man entertains the least doubt about his choice of mistress, he should cut off the association instantly. A wife, one must keep regardless of second thoughts. Only a self-flagellating fool keeps a mistress who fails to meet his expectations.”
~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress
Chapter 8
Sebastian mounted his favorite steed in one smooth motion and clattered out of the stable yard, kicking up a swirl of straw and clods of dirt in his wake. He leaned over the horse's neck, urging him to stretch out for more speed as they barreled down the tree-lined drive.
“Come on, you big bastard,” he crooned to the gelding as he turned his horse’s head off the lane and across the grassy meadow. “Show me what you're made of.”
The horse laid back its ears and flew over the ground. Sebastian raised himself out of the saddle, knees flexed, leaning forward toward the flying mane. The world whipped past him in a greenish-gray blur. Blood pounded in his ears in tandem with the hooves pounding the turf.
For a moment, Arabella and her treasonous associations faded into the back of his mind and all he felt was the lightness of near flight and the freedom of simply being. His breath fell into rhythm. His thighs flexed in time with the muscles of the powerful animal beneath him. He squeezed the horse with his knees, giving a bit more pressure to the right and zigged around a walnut tree without a tug on the reins.
The horse responded as if it were an extension of his own body. He threaded through the copse of trees, ducking under low branches and splashing through a stream in full spate, droplets of water flying around him.
When a stone fence row rose before him, he and the gelding sailed over it as one.
No thoughts plagued him. No aching burn in his chest over Arabella St. George's damnable complications. No need to do anything, but ride.
* * * * *
Bella's breath caught in her throat as she and the groom, Fletcher, waited on the crest of a rise. The mare Sebastian had lent her was quick and willing. She'd enjoyed a mad dash over the same meadow Sebastian now careening across like a man possessed. When he took the fence in a glorious bound and landed safely without the gelding breaking its stride, she sighed with relief.
“Don't ye be fretting for His Grace, miss,” Mr. Fletcher said. “He's a proper terror on horseback and no mistake.”
The way her chest constricted, Arabella suspected he was also a proper terror to her heart. She'd known countless men. She'd never known one like Sebastian. One who governed himself as rigidly as he controlled his mount, yet was capable of such reckless abandon in the exercise of his power. Her body was still achy with denied need after their blazing kisses in his library. Desire rose afresh as she watched him pound up the hill straight toward her.
When he reached her, he reined the gelding to such a sudden stop, it nearly sat on its haunches. Sebastian's chest heaved with as much exertion as his mount's. A light drizzle began to fall and his hair clung damply around his ears.
“That'll be all, Fletcher,” Sebastian ordered his groom.
With a respectful tug of his forelock, the man wheeled his mount away and loped back toward the stables.
The rain droplets fell in fat splats now, but Sebastian just continued to look at her, his dark eyes gleaming with a feral light.
“The rain seems determined,” he finally said. “Do you wish to return to the house?”
“I'm in no danger of melting,” she said. “You know I'm not that sweet.”
“Then follow me.” He turned the gelding's head and led her down the hill away from the manor at a slightly less than breakneck pace.
Once they reached the valley floor, the sky opened and rain fell in slanting torrents. Sebastian didn't slow and didn't turn back toward the main house. Instead they galloped through the heath in the opposite direction. Arabella squinted against the onslaught, but managed to keep Sebastian's flying coattails in sight. When he turned down a trail cutting through the dense woods, she reined her mare to follow.
Her riding habit was plastered to her form and her hat was a lost cause, but the joy of the chase was infectious. She urged her mare as close as she dared to his horse's hooves. She caught a glimpse of a thatched roofline embedded in the canopy of green ahead. When the cottage came into view it seemed a bit shabby, but when lightning flashed and her mare shied and tossed her head, the shelter was a welcome sight.
Sebastian stopped ahead of her, dismounted and lifted her from the sidesaddle. “Get inside,” he ordered, “and I'll see to the horses.”
She lifted her soggy skirt and dashed for the door while Sebastian led their mounts to a small shed.
Arabella expected to be assaulted by dust and mold, but the inside of the cottage was surprisingly clean. Especially since no one answered when she called out to announce her presence. A fire had been banked in the stone fireplace to ward off mustiness and drive the chilly damp from the air. She stirred it with a poker and it flared to life, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
A brace of hunting rifles hung above the mantle. Based on the bearskin on the floor and the
general masculinity of the heavy furniture, she surmised this was Sebastian's hunting lodge.
When he entered the structure behind her, his expression left no doubt of his quarry now.
He crossed the slate floor in long strides and swept her into his arms. He kissed her. Hard. Giving no quarter.
She responded in kind, devouring him when he lent her brief control in the kiss. His mouth burned across her jaw and down her neck. His hands worked at the gold frogs at the front of her bodice, exposing her stays and the top of her lacy chemisette. He tugged down one side to cup her bare breast. She moaned when he kneaded her flesh and then tormented her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. When he bent to suckle her, a trill of need sang through her whole body and her knees nearly buckled.
Arabella had always thought she'd never feel more alive than when she offered up her voice to the god of music. The delights of the flesh were all well and good, but even they had paled in comparison to the rewards of her art.
Not this time.
Who would have thought this complicated, rigid man would be the one to set her singing, blood and bone, body and soul?
She yanked off his cravat and worked furiously to remove his sodden jacket and shirt. Bella tasted the bare skin of his shoulder, smooth and wet, and she couldn't get enough of him. His chest was lightly furred with dark hair that whorled around his brown nipples. She raked her teeth over one and was rewarded with a low male growl.
He cradled the back of her head with his palm and took her mouth, while she fumbled at the trouser buttons at his hips. Her bare breast pressed up against him, skin on glorious skin.
She stopped thinking in complete thoughts and could only register disjointed impressions.
Slick. Hard. Wanting.
Sebastian pulled out the hatpin and discarded her sad little bonnet. Then he made short work of removing her pelisse and skirt. It was a convoluted process because as sections of her skin were exposed, he caressed and kissed and nipped each needy bit of her. It was as if he were consuming her one delectable bite at a time. She couldn't wish him to stop, however few pieces of her might be left when it was over.
