A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2)

by Natasha Blackthorne

  A Most Demanding Mistress

  ©Copyright Natasha Blackthorne 2016

  Cover Art and photo by The Killion Group, Inc. 2015

  Kindle Edition

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Languages

  All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form, including email or IM, without prior written permission from the author, Natasha Blackthorne, at n.blackthorne@yahoo.com.

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction, sharing, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  This e-book contains explicit erotic scenes and graphic sexual language. Some readers may consider such content offensive. It is for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country and/or state where this e-book was purchased. Please store your files where minors cannot access them.

  DISCLAIMER: Natasha Blackthorne writes romantic fiction for entertainment purposes only. Please do not attempt to use this book as a “how-to” book for any topic. Her works are not meant to be guides or representations of modern BDSM practices or lifestyles. Please seek the guidance of an experienced practitioner and/or your personal physician before trying any new sexual practice. The author, Natasha Blackthorne, will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of her titles.

  Chapter One

  Miranda followed the tall, thin butler, Walters, watching his candle cast long, wavering shadows on the walls in the dark, silent corridor. Her slipper-shod footfalls seemed to echo unnaturally loud—loud enough to be disrespectful to the peace of the obviously sleeping household.

  Hard shivers rocked her down to her bones, making her teeth chatter so hard that she feared her jaw might come unhinged.

  Was the gusting autumn wind that had cut through her evening clothes really cold enough to produce that extreme a reaction?

  No, it wasn’t.

  She knew herself to be in a state of emotional shock.

  Shock due to having spurned the best offer of a gentleman’s financial support she was likely ever to garner in her life.

  Suddenly, in her mind, she was back in the Duke of Froster’s withdrawing chamber. He was kneeling before her, lamplight shining on his forehead through the sparse light brown strands of his forelock, as he begged her to reconsider.

  She couldn’t do it.

  She couldn’t give herself to him.

  Images had kept running through her mind. Images of what it would be like next time she saw the Earl of Danvers.

  Adrian.

  What would it be like to look into Adrian’s eyes with both her and him knowing that she had given herself to Froster?

  A man she did not love.

  A man she had come to despise.

  She couldn’t face Adrian under those circumstances.

  But the Duke of Froster had asked for something else that Miranda would never be able to offer any man.

  And those two things had stopped her from accepting the help that would have secured the living situation that would have ensured her mother’s sanity. The doctors had said her mother was teetering on the edge between being merely childlike and completely disconnected from reality. She must have a stable home life without any further upsets— at least for the time being. Maybe later Mama would be stronger in her mind. But for now, she was quite fragile.

  Ever since coming of age, Miranda had always put her mother’s needs above her own. The Duke of Froster’s generous offer of protection would have enabled her to afford to provide Mama all the stability and security in her living situation that she so badly needed.

  Miranda couldn’t reconcile having made such a selfish choice.

  Miranda no longer knew herself. Pound, pound, pound. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears, increasing by the moment.

  Panic.

  Adrian.

  She must see him. If she saw him, somehow everything would be all right, everything would fall into place.

  Waves of energy surged into her legs. An urge to run down this long, dark corridor, to call out his name, seized her.

  She laid a hand over her chest, forcing herself to walk sedately, keeping her eyes trained to the butler’s back.

  Maintain your outward calm, Miranda.

  She gulped a breath. She had come here—run here—to the house of the man who had always before treated her coldly, with complete disdain.

  So, why would she come here?

  Because, recently, he had saved her. He had single-handler pulled her emotionally and physically through the horrid ordeal when she had unwittingly taken a goblet of drugged wine from a group of young men who had been intent upon taking what they wanted from her semi-conscious body.

  They had inadvertently given her too much of the potion and turned what should have been a sedative into a… poison.

  No one had ever given Miranda such focused devotion and care as Adrian had that morning when he had rescued her and seen her through the nightmare of the medical intervention necessary to save her life.

  Certainly never had a man ever been so caring of her physical safety and emotional well-being.

  In her world, men were like her father, the Duke of Winterton—cold, disapproving, self-seeking.

  She was absolutely convinced that Winterton had been behind the boys’ attack.

  Her father had never acknowledged her. He had never given her a tender word or gesture or even a father’s natural guiding hand of discipline.

  No, he had always hated her with the same unwavering intensity of emotion with which other fathers loved their daughters. Walters stopped at a door. His keys jingled softly then the door moved soundlessly on its hinges.

  Her heart leaped into her throat. His candle made a dim illumination, and she recognized the elegant décor of the study.

  Being here again in this chamber where Adrian had shamed and rejected her, it was too easy to second-guess their all too recent and tenuous connection.

  She took an uneasy breath.

  Was she thinking clearly?

  Likely not.

  Would Adrian really welcome her, especially after the way they had parted the last time? Especially after the way she had rejected all his offers of support and help.

  But he couldn’t help her with her current troubles regarding Mama. He simply did not possess the wealth necessary to purchase the Mama’s house.

  A heavy weight settled into her stomach. Despair for the utter unfairness of it all.

  It was the Duke of Winterton’s doing.

  All of it.

  He had gone out of his way to purchase the land and decrepit country mansion that was part of the estate that Mama’s house sat on. He demanded full payment, asking three times what that estate would ever be worth.

  He’d done it to hurt Miranda.

  Lightning flashed a burst of bright, pulsing light that filled the space and drew her attention to the windows. Steady, pounding rain put silvery sheeting over panes of glass that stretched nearly floor to ceiling. The light faded even as thunder rumbled through the floorboards beneath her feet.

  Walters turned to her. “May I take your wrap, Miss Jones?”

  Needing the illusion of protection that the heavy velvet pelisse gave her, she hugged her shoulders tighter and shook
her head.

  “Please, Miss Jones, I fear I must insist.”

  She shook her head again.

  The barest wince crossed his distinguished features and with a gloved hand, he gestured to the floor.

  She looked down and saw the droplets coming off her wrap that left tiny puddles on the richly hued rug and then she glanced back at the servant.

  “I cannot have Lord Danvers find that I have simply left you here, shivering and dripping in his withdrawing chamber.” A slight smile graced his thin lips, one that portrayed an air of conspiratorial camaraderie that she knew he would never have shown to a woman who was of Lord Danvers’ social standing.

  But then, she was no aristocrat, even though her father had been a duke. She was a commoner.

  A courtesan who had come to a gentleman’s house, alone, late at night.

  Still, it did say something that the butler himself had come hurrying, breathless and still smoothing his hair, to attend her and escort her from the vestibule to here. Did that say something about her importance to Adrian Sutherland, the mighty Earl of Danvers?

  Reluctantly, she shed the garment and handed it to him. Cool air caressed her nearly bared shoulders, her upper arms, and bosom as well, making her feel strangely naked and unprotected.

  Gooseflesh rose on her exposed flesh, and she shivered again, hugging herself once more even though she knew how undignified the position was.

  Even though, normally, she would never, ever betray her sense of vulnerability in such a manner.

  A soft knock sounded on the open door.

  Her heart leaped into her throat and she jerked her gaze to the door.

  A young maid stood there—sleepy-eyed with her white cap somewhat askew.

  Disappointment crashed over Miranda. Oh, if only Adrian would appear.

  A wave of sensation swept through her, like needles brushing over all her skin, all at once. Impatience like she’d never known in her life. She gritted her teeth.

  She needed to see him.

  Only him.

  The butler made a sharp gesture, and the servant rushed to the hearth, dropped to her knees and set to lighting the fire.

  He turned back to Miranda and made a sweeping gesture towards a wing chair. “Please Miss Jones, have a seat.”

  Her knees seemed to have locked and, for some reason, she wanted to be standing when she faced Lord Danvers.

  She shook her head, moving her head just barely.

  The butler compressed his lips.

  Who was he to show displeasure in her choice? She lifted her chin and let a haughty expression fall over her face.

  The butler lifted his brows then nodded. “Very well, Miss Jones, I shall go and inform his lordship that you are here.”

  Her mouth fell open slightly and she gaped at him as he departed.

  She clenched her fists.

  All this time waiting, she had assumed that Danvers had already been alerted. She realized that she’d have to wait for him to dress and do whatever gentlemen did to compose themselves before granting a visitor an audience.

  Just knowing she’d have that much longer to wait sapped what little spunk she had regained and her body sagged as the energy drained from her.

  Weeks before, she had stood in this exact same spot whilst Lord Danvers had glared down his narrow, aristocratic nose at her.

  Noblemen were notoriously fickle, vain and easily offended.

  Suppose her reluctance to accept his help earlier had offended him so deeply that he would not wish to see her now?

  Again, she shivered.

  She shifted her weight from foot to foot. Her tingling hands made her aware of her quickening breath. Aware of her rising apprehension. No, she was letting her emotions run riot, to control her. She should face him with a calmer demeanor. Never give a gentleman—an aristocrat—a greater sense of power over others than they already bore. She tightened and released her fists, whilst concentrating on breathing slower.

  Noble or not, he was just a man.

  If he didn’t wish to see her, she would simply leave.

  Her heart paged.

  How badly it would hurt if he refused to see her.

  Not just inconvenience her or thwart some need she had, but hurt. The emotional type of pain she had spent her whole life trying to shield her heart against.

  For the first time, a gentleman’s possible rejection mattered for more than monetary reasons.

  She began to realize just how much emotional power Danvers had managed to attain over her.

  This theft of her heart had seemed to happen outside of her knowing. She would never have willingly given anyone such power.

  The sound of the doorknob turning made her start. She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. “Yes,” she called out in a shaky voice.

  She watched the doorknob turn, expecting the butler or the maid, returning so soon for what reason…

  To tell her that Danvers had no wish to see her?

  A knot of heaviness sank into her belly. She took another deep breath, swallowing back a sudden queasiness that increased as the door came open.

  Adrian.

  He filled the doorway. A dark green banyan clung to his broad shoulders and well-developed chest, the garment open at the collar.

  His face was slightly flushed, his chest rising and falling quickly, as though he had hurried here. Perhaps he had even run, though the prospect seemed unlikely for the ultra-dignified Earl of Danvers.

  She met his eyes.

  Beautiful eyes—as blue as rich and vivid as lapis. His coal black hair fell over his forehead, haphazardly mussed and providing a contrast that made the color of his eyes all the more intense.

  How those eyes had once portrayed such cruel amusement and intense dislike, at just the sight of her.

  Her chest tightened with an aching sensation and she tried to discern his mood, his thoughts.

  But his expression betrayed nothing.

  She swallowed against the tightness rising in her throat. She couldn’t have spoken to save herself. But it didn’t matter. Let him speak first. Let him reveal first what he felt at seeing her again, here in this chamber where he had shamed and rejected her before. She would protect herself as much as she could.

  “Miranda.”

  The tenderness in his voice made her knees go weak.

  He motioned to the settee which was nearer to her.

  On shaking legs, she moved towards it then collapsed on to the cushions.

  In an instant, he sat beside her.

  His gaze intensified, as though he were drinking in the sight of her. She certainly drank in the sight of him.

  Night after night, alone in her bed, she had longed for him.

  Longed for him, even after she had rejected his offer so resolutely…

  God. She had longed for him so intensely that her heart had ached.

  It had often ached so badly that often it had seemed to her that it must be damaged. She had lain awake and wondered if that ailing organ would simply tire out in her sleep and stop.

  Yet come morning, it had always beaten strongly once more, only to pain her again, in those seemingly endless nocturnal hours when distractions did not come so easily.

  Now she was here with him.

  And he had accepted her without recrimination or reservation.

  She hungered for his touch. She wanted only to fling herself against him, to bid him to take her into his arms and never let her go.

  But no, not yet.

  First, she had to tell him. This man who put duty to his loved ones above all else, he had to know her true character, what selfishness she was capable of. She would never, ever lie to him again about her weaknesses. He must accept her as she was or not at all.

  “I have ruined myself,” she said. “I have let my mother down.”

  The admission left her weak and she felt her body sag into the cushions.

  He took her hands. His own hands were so strong, so warm. His strength seem
ed to pour into her.

  Again, just like that terrible morning when the boys had poisoned her, Adrian gave her a kind of comforting she had never truly known before.

  A man’s kind of comforting.

  True, the Duke of Carrville, her first protector, her dearly departed friend, had been kind and patient with her. Yet, he had taken far more comfort from her than he had ever given. Sexual comfort. The comfort of a woman paid to be ever warm and accepting and, above all, cheerful and entertaining, no matter how she really felt.

  And Carrville had never made her feel so utterly safe and protected as Adrian could, just with his merest touch.

  Adrian’s dark brows drew together. “Hush.”

  “No, I shall never be able to live with myself now. Mama will have a complete breakdown and it will be all my fault.” Tears blurred her vision. ”Oh God, Adrian. I did not know.”

  She hadn’t known how utterly impossible it would be to submit to Froster.

  She hadn’t realized that she would fail.

  He leaned close. The aroma of brandy and his masculine scent filled her senses. He touched her shoulders.

  At his touch, her body went limp, a delicious sort of relaxation, a type of submission as he pulled her into his embrace.

  “Please, love, don’t despair.” He caressed her back.

  With each stroke, she felt all the tension she had carried with her these past weeks melt away. Completely.

  “It is not as bad as you think.”

  She wanted to believe him.

  Oh, it was too sweetly seductive to believe that he could make her problems disappear.

  She wanted to simply close her eyes and allow him to shoulder all her burdens. She had never believed that any man ever could.

  Ever would…

  “Oh yes, it is.” She gulped back a sob. “Froster took me back. He even said that he would never require me to do anything in bed that I didn’t wish to. God, he was so sincere. So contrite about his former unrelenting stance with me.”

  The reality of her fatal mistake settled in.

  Without Froster’s offer of protection, without his money, what hope did she have to solve the problem of Mama and her need for complete stability in her living situation?

  Hopelessness descended on her like a dark, cold cloak over her senses. Her throat tightened. She swallowed, hard. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t let him touch me. All I could think of was you and how much I want to be yours.” She made a choking sob. “If I let him touch me. If I had let him take me, I would never be yours again.”