A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2)

by Natasha Blackthorne

  She didn’t believe that he really loved her.

  Not now.

  Not after seeing that look of utter possessive, maybe even obsessive desire.

  Miranda didn’t know a lot about love between a man and woman. However, she knew one thing from pure instinct and common sense.

  No man could love a woman and look at her as though she were a possession.

  Winterton had looked at Mama so many times—too many times—with that look. As though she were prized plaything.

  I let myself love him completely, unreservedly for a whole day.

  With no thought of the future.

  Tremendous pressure seemed to build within her chest. She gave a lengthy sigh, trying to release that heaviness.

  But it wouldn’t go. It spread into her throat. She lifted her head and pressed her hand, trying to ward off the sense of being gagged.

  Being gagged by her own regret.

  She hadn’t known that he would make such demands on her.

  She hadn’t realized how much her life would change—must change—if she were to be his…his…

  His love.

  Yet, still his possession?

  Yes, of course. Noblemen were incapable of seeing common women as anything else.

  Maybe they even saw their own wives that way?

  Like their horses and dogs. Cherished, adored and loved, yes.

  But owned.

  Just Winterton had owned Mama.

  The duke’s sense of ownership over Mama had extended beyond his tiring of her. He had been jealous of any man who would dare touch one of his toys.

  Even if he no longer cherished that particular toy.

  Staring into the flames, she was transported in her memory to that night in the tiny kitchen. Winterton forcing Mama to her knees, forcing her head back, his hand twisted into her hair, cruelly forcing her head back, forcing her to look up at him—

  Like a supplicant.

  Forcing her to take his organ into her mouth—

  Her body jerked, reflexively. As though the memory of her pistol’s retort was indelibly imprinted on her.

  Blood.

  So much blood!

  Acid rushed into her throat, hot and burning. She clamped a hand to her mouth and choked it back, swallowing, swallowing…

  She would no longer allow the memories to control her, to make her retch, to make her suffer.

  Her stomach gave another hard lurch.

  She swallowed again.

  No! I will not be sick over Winterton’s sins! Never again.

  Winterton had been the one seeped in sickness and sin. She’d been an innocent. A daughter who sought only to protect her mother.

  A daughter who had become a harlot to save and provide for a mother who become broken in her mind and spirit that dreadful night.

  She had not wanted it but now she couldn’t change what life had made of her.

  She was a courtesan. And a courtesan must always protect her heart. Must always keep her eye on the larger prize.

  Miranda…You are no longer a courtesan, a girl whose time and attentions one might purchase for the right price…you’re mine now.

  She could still feel the cold metal of Adrian’s signet ring, imprinting his family crest into her flesh.

  Despite his lack of wealth, he was a mighty earl.

  She was just a common-born girl who had only her beauty and whatever intelligence she possessed to ensure survival for Mama and herself.

  Since she had discovered how Aunt Cassandra had lied to her and betrayed her, stealing the money that Miranda had earned with her virgin’s blood, it had sunk in on her fully, just how alone she was. She had only Mama to care for in the whole world.

  And she could trust and depend on only herself.

  A knock sounded at the main entrance to her rooms.

  The sound seemed to echo in the pit of her belly, even as a little wave of anticipation tingled through her.

  Of course, it would be Danvers.

  Who else?

  Her mouth went dry and a little eddy of lightheaded apprehension threatened to overtake her.

  She was here alone. She had let her housekeeper go and had not had the time to hire her back. Sally, the maid, spent her nights at her family’s shop.

  A second knock sounded. Louder this time.

  She leaped up and ran on silent, stockinged feet to the door.

  “Miranda.”

  She caught her breath.

  Yes, Danvers himself. Just the sound of his voice did things to her that should never be allowed. It weakened her resolve.

  He knocked again.

  She steeled herself and leaned close to the door. “Go away.”

  “Miranda, please.”

  His voice was contrite. Gentle.

  She wanted to fling the door open. To fly to him.

  With her hand on the knob, her hand grew weak, slack.

  How often had Winterton spoken to Mama in coaxing tones? How often had he sworn to hold an unending love for Mama?

  Her throat began to burn and she pressed her forehead to the door frame. “I don’t need this…” Her voice cracked and she swallowed. “I don’t want to see you, not now.”

  “When?” His voice resounded with frustration.

  “I need time…” Yes, she needed to be alone. She needed to think.

  She couldn’t think clearly around him. Even when speaking to him through a door. Her hand flexed on the doorknob.

  “Miranda…” His voice had deepened, sounded somewhat choked. “You sound overset. I can hear your shaking in your words.”

  Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes. She closed them and swallowed, pressing her forehead harder until the craved edge of the frame began to dig into her flesh.

  But she couldn’t hold back the flood of hot, stinging tears. She clamped a hand to her mouth, silencing a gulped sob.

  “I lost control.” His firmly stated admission rocked through her.

  Calling to her sympathy. To her longing for him.

  Drowning in a morass of warring, confusing emotions, she grasped the one that didn’t weaken her, the one that did not hurt so badly.

  Anger. “You bloody well did!”

  The vulgarity exploded from her lips and sent a wave of warm satisfaction through her. Yet, her anger continued to build.

  “Damn you, Davers! Damn you to blackest hell!”

  Silence fell in the wake of her exclamation. Her ears strained for the sound of his departing footfalls even as her heart began to beat frantically. And her stomach turned sick.

  Would he really go?

  Wasn’t that what she wanted?

  Oh God, she wasn’t sure what she wanted—

  “I know that you are angry. You have a right to your anger,” he said, in a quiet, yet deep and steady voice.

  Suddenly all her anger drained, leaving her weak and sagging with her back against the door. Tears were still streaming down her cheeks. Yet, she was clearer of mind than she had been since the scene in his box. She wiped at her eyes with her flannel sleeve.

  “You need time, I understand.” Adrian’s calm tone had continued steadying effect on her. “But our separation should not be public. It wouldn’t be safe for you.”

  “Why not?” she asked, not fully understanding his meaning.

  “Winterton.”

  The mention of the duke sent a chill through her.

  “I don’t want Winterton—or any other man—to think that you are without protection, for you are not. You never will be again, Miranda. No, matter what happens, I shall be here for you.”

  Miranda went weaker than ever, leaning hard against the door, her shoulder shaking as quiet sobs racked her.

  Safe. He made her feel so safe.

  She had longed, in her secret heart, for a feeling of safety like this.

  But could she trust it?

  Could she really trust him?

  Especially after his loss of control tonight?

  “I sho
uld take you for rides in Hyde Park in my open carriage and maybe accompany you on a few of your errands. We should be seen together.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Are you crying?” His voice was curt, but she could hear the frantic edge underneath.

  She sniffled and swallowed, hard. “I-I…” She couldn’t compose herself.

  She was so mixed up inside.

  “You frightened the very devil out of me!” The words seemed to well up from the pit of her heart, her belly, the very pit of her soul.

  She would never, ever have allowed herself to admit fear to a man.

  At least not before Danvers.

  A series of silent, convulsive sobs followed and she put her hand over her mouth, helpless to the emotion rocking through her. Afterward, she stood panting, a strange calm following the excess.

  For the love of God, who was this weeping, near hysterical girl?

  How effortlessly he could make her come undone!

  And that seemed all the more reason to continue to distrust him, to continue to protect herself against him.

  In the silence that followed, she willed her breathing to slow.

  “Miranda, please, allow me to enter.”

  “No, no…” She shook her head.

  “This is killing me.”

  His voice rang with anguish.

  Anguish that cut through all other considerations and spoke to her heart.

  She couldn’t stop herself. She whirled and wrenched the door open.

  Still dressed in his dark evening clothes, with his dark hair falling across his forehead and his eyes burning with emotion, he looked too handsome to be human.

  His face contorted with some emotion.

  She couldn’t be sure what. A wave of her earlier anger swept through her, sweeping away her ability to think. She lunged forwards and came at him with her arms raised. She fisted her hands and hit him in the chest, pelting the wool of his coat.

  “Damn you!”

  His eyes widened and then his features softened into something that looked very much like fond amusement.

  That sent her anger spiraling and she pelted him all the harder.

  He grasped her wrists.

  It disconcerted her how quickly, how easily he was able to render her helpless. She struggled against his hold. “Damn you!” She caught a convulsive breath. “Damn your eyes!”

  “Hush, hush,” he said, gently yet firmly.

  “I saw Winterton in your face!” She hurled the words at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “In the box, at the theater, I saw Winterton in your face.”

  He froze. Then he paled. “God.”

  “He would have done the same as you. After all, I am just a night bird, aren’t I? Common-born.”

  “Hush, don’t say those things.” He pulled her towards the open door.

  Awareness of their situation struck her.

  He was a peer of the realm, standing in the corridor of her boarding house, in the wee hours, apologizing and bearing his soul.

  Letting her hit at his chest and vent all her emotions.

  He had lost control at the theater.

  But here, now, she was the one who had lost control.

  He was accepting it, taking it, even though they were sure to be the object of gossip on the morrow. The people in her boarding house weren’t blind or deaf. Someone would see the benefit to sharing the tale of this little drama, especially for a little ready coin.

  What was wrong with her?

  Had she lost all rationality?

  Having gone limp, she allowed him to draw her back into her vestibule. He closed the door then pulled her into his arms.

  How strong, how solid and warm he felt. His lips brushed her forehead and she melted further, leaning into his body.

  “I saw Winterton in your face.” She barely whispered the words.

  He stroked her hair. “Hush now.”

  “The same arrogance, the same sense of ownership.”

  “I am not Winterton.” His voice shook with the raw edge of anguish. “I shall never abandon you.” He pushed back and cupped her face.

  She tried to dip her head, seeking to hide herself once more against his chest.

  “Look at me,” he demanded, cupping her face more firmly.

  She met his vivid blue gaze.

  “I am not Winterton.” His voice was still thick with emotion. “No matter what happens, as long as I draw breath, you will want for nothing. I will protect you.”

  A long inhalation, followed by a sigh escaped her, as though her body were releasing all its pent-up tension of its own volition.

  “All those men, staring at you.”

  He said those words as if they were torn from him. “Madness obscured my ability to think clearly.” He frowned. “I have never, ever experienced such anger. I have never been carried away by emotion like that before.”

  “You frightened me. When you held me down and would not allow me to move, when you pressed your signet into my breasts like you were branding me as though I were some possession, a plaything that you would mark—”

  His mouth came down over hers, closing off her words. His tongue swept inside, caressing hers. Beneath the mint he’d obviously used to cover the scent, she could taste a strong flavor of brandy yet clung to his breath. Her heart panged.

  He’d been drinking to excess again.

  Over her?

  Yes, of course.

  She didn’t want to be the cause of that—

  His hands cupped her face, fiercely now. His tongue thrust against hers. This was no attempt to coax, but a powerful statement of possession.

  Such a kiss should have reignited her earlier fear and anger.

  Yet, each stroke sent thrills coursing through her. A moan welled deep within her throat. She couldn’t hold it back.

  He lifted his head.

  She moaned again. A protest.

  Opening her eyes, she met his gaze and found it blazing with emotion.

  “I do want to mark you as my possession.” His tone was hard, resolute.

  At the intensity of his passion, she let her mouth fall open.

  His mouth fastened on her neck, sucking hard. “I do want to mark you,” he said, then he sucked all the more on her, sending shivers and thrills through her. He lifted his head then licked the area he had just abused so roughly. “I will mark you here and on your belly and on the inside of your thigh, right near your sweet cunt.”

  Desire for him flared hotly at his bold and perhaps perverse words.

  She had lusted for him for a long time. Lusted for him even when she believed that he despised her. Lusted for him so much that it had shamed her and she had lied to herself, telling herself that she hated him in return.

  But the truth had been she had lusted for him desperately since she’d first laid eyes on him. Lusted for him as she had no other man.

  Why?

  Lying here beneath him, experiencing the power of his possessive desire for her, she could admit something she would never have before.

  His arrogance had always intrigued her.

  It had also aroused her

  Always.

  She didn’t understand it. Didn’t have the presence of mind to reason it out, not with such passion pulsing through her own veins.

  “I cannot help it, Miranda.”

  He spoke gruffly but his eyes burned. Did she imagine that touch of desperation, of defeat? Such an admission made her belly tingle with fear… and desire.

  It was illogical but the idea that he wanted her so much… that this proud, powerful, arrogant man felt powerless to it sent her arousal soaring.

  “Adrian—”

  He put his mouth to hers again, sucking away her breath.

  The touch of his full, sensual yet firm lips wiped away the last of her ability to think. Her lips clung to his and her body trembled with her wanting.

  Wanting more of his mouth, wanting him to thrust his tongue again
st hers.

  He did.

  Fiercely.

  Giving her every ounce of his taste that she craved.

  For long moments, she simply accepted his strokes, glorying in his ardor, his feel, his taste. Then she slid her tongue against his, using every bit of sensual skill she’d been compelled to learn as a courtesan in training. She was glad for that training now for it would allow her to imprint herself on his senses. To kiss him so thoroughly and skillfully, something his previous high-born playmates wouldn’t have been able to do.

  But Miranda had been trained better than most courtesans. She would kiss Adrian so expertly that he would never be able to kiss another woman and not find them lacking in comparison.

  He gripped her jaw and kissed her more fiercely, taking total control, making it impossible for her to do anything but accept.

  He inserted a hand between their bodies and cupped her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple through the thick flannel. Fiery sparks of delight shot through her. Her knees went weak and with a moan, she sagged into his body.

  He groaned, the sound rumbled through to her chest, deep into her belly.

  Suddenly, she found herself swept up into his arms, held to his body with his lips devouring her neck as he walked. He deposited her on the nearest piece of furniture. The only piece of furniture that she hadn’t sold for coin in the past months—the settee.

  Without any other preliminaries, he pulled the flannel skirt of the nightdress up. Still driven to entice him, to imprint herself on his mind, she lifted her hips, allowing him to bare her to waist.

  She was bathed in the soft firelight. Of course, she was. She and Cassandra had arranged the furniture in this chamber so that she would always be displayed to perfection, should a man bring her to the settee.

  His face was in shadow.

  He sucked in his breath, loudly, sharply. She could picture his gaze, growing darker, fixed on the junction between her legs. The color of the settee had been selected to compliment her skin and to clash in a pleasing way with her dark red hair.

  Now she was glad that Cassandra had been so insistent on her sensual strategies wanted this complex, arrogant, sensual, tender man. She remembered, with brief, yet vivid, aching intensity, the painful desperation of their separation. How every night had been an agony of longing.

  She wasn’t sure she could ever live without him again.

  She didn’t think she could bear the suffering his absence provoked in her.