A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2)

by Natasha Blackthorne

  “He was dishonest with himself about what his daughters would do.”

  “He loved his daughters. That’s why he never remarried. He couldn’t bear to have them think he held a woman higher than their dearly departed mama.”

  “You admired that about him,” Cassandra accused.

  “A father should love his children.”

  “He was too soft. And you, my dear, too closely associate a man’s strength with hardness and coldness.”

  “What you call a man’s strength, I call a man’s callous nature.”

  “Not all men of strength and will are as callous as Winterton,” Cassandra said. “Given the correct amount and type of pressure, any nut will crack, including Lord Danvers.”

  Winterton never did, she thought. But Aunt Cassandra would never, could never understand. No one could.

  In her mind’s eye, Miranda saw Mama the morning after she had confessed her pregnancy to Winterton. Her blonde hair coiled neatly about her head as she bent over her needlework, her hands shaking slightly, making her miss stitches. Patiently pulling the threads out of the cloth, she cocked her head. The lamplight caught the greenish-purple hue of a bruise that marred her cheek.

  No one would hurt Mama ever again.

  Not as long as Miranda lived. Especially not the man with pale green eyes so like hers.

  “I had to become a courtesan,” Miranda whispered. “What choice had I?”

  “None,” Aunt Cassandra said, soothingly. “In way, perhaps it is a blessing that Carrville died.”

  Miranda jerked her head up and gaped. “How can you say that?”

  “Your mama let the loss of Winterton shatter her.”

  “Of course it shattered her! She loved him completely.”

  In a rustle of starched undergarments, Aunt Cassandra leaned forward and put her hand on Miranda’s. “You need to hear this.”

  Miranda’s chin quivered.

  “Men leave.”

  The firm conviction in Aunt Cassandra’s voice shattered Miranda’s heated emotions.

  “Yes, I know,” she replied.

  “They become bored and leave. Sometimes they die, but they leave all the same.”

  Miranda swallowed back tears. How could she have doubted her aunt, her mentor, her dear friend?

  “Don’t make the same mistakes that your mama made. Don’t throw away this chance to have all that you deserve.”

  All that Mama deserves.

  Miranda shook her head. “I won’t. I won’t!”

  Chapter Three

  The carriage stopped in front of Lord Danvers’ townhouse. Miranda shivered. Even the cold façade of the house reminded her of Danvers. Miranda’s stomach began to churn. Oh, why hadn’t she eaten even a little biscuit before leaving home? The carriage rocked as the footman leaped from the carriage to the ground.

  He opened the door and extended a hand to her aunt. She descended the stairs, and he released her and grasped Miranda’s hand as she took the two steps to the ground.

  A little quiver of nerves rippled in her belly. She felt as if she were about to enter the lion’s den. Aunt Cassandra started up the walkway, and Miranda followed. Her aunt knocked, and a footman quickly opened the door. Cassandra presented her card.

  “This way, Miss Jones.”

  Miranda followed her aunt inside, sweeping through the doorway, head held proudly.

  Excellent poise. Graceful, graceful!

  Aunt Cassandra’s voice rang in her mind.

  Dark wood paneling sucked away even the dim candlelight as they followed the footman down the corridor. Here and there, a brass accent glinted softly in the light spilling from the one open doorway up ahead.

  The low rumble of men’s voices echoed from within.

  Miranda took a deep breath and donned her best courtesan’s expression.

  Polite, but not too friendly. Be proud.

  The servant rapped on the door.

  “Enter.” The Earl of Danvers’ voice resounded above the other voices. A deep, assured tone that Miranda would recognize anywhere.

  A tone that put a thread of unease into her belly. Her breath began to quicken. She glanced at Aunt Cassandra and found the older woman’s expression cool, composed.

  She should aspire to that as well.

  Always cool. Always composed.

  But her insides twisted like a writhing snake. Oh, what was Lord Danvers going to say?

  Aunt Cassandra entered the chamber in a soft rustle of velvet skirts and starched petticoats. Miranda glided in close behind, head held proudly, a polite smile frozen on her face.

  Miranda forced energy into her whole being, the energy of feminine enticement. To be every man’s fantasy of beauty and pleasure. To be slightly otherworldly. It only took a certain attitude, didn’t it?

  The men froze, voices dying in mid-sentence as every head turned in their direction.

  “Cassandra Jones!” said a serious-faced young man. The thick, curling chestnut forelock gave him a romantic look, ardent emotion resounding in his voice.

  “Good morning, Lord Whipple.” Aunt Cassandra’s voice was rich, sensual.

  “You’re looking lovely today,” Lord Whipple replied.

  “Why, thank you, Lord Whipple.”

  “I have my own townhouse now,” Lord Whipple said. “You ought to come and see it sometime.”

  “How kind of you,” Aunt Cassandra replied. “Perhaps my niece and I shall pop by later this week.”

  “Well,” he said, his gaze sweeping Cassandra from head to toe and back. “I had meant it for you, alone.”

  Aunt Cassandra paused and gave him an equally through examination, and then she laughed, low and sultry. “You are a naughty boy, Jimmy.”

  They walked the length of the grand chamber and the men’s eyes riveted on both her and Aunt Cassandra, hot, hungry, yearning.

  Awestruck.

  Such a thing had frightened her so much when she’d first been turned out, in her first elegant gowns and mature woman’s coiffure, when she had been only eighteen.

  Sometimes the power still unsettled her.

  She took a deep breath, and forced more energy into herself, letting her smile warm a bit, making brief eye contact with some of her long-term admirers.

  Give just enough warmth and promise to keep their desire alive.

  They came to the rear of the chamber, facing the bank of large windows. In the periphery of her vision, Miranda saw a dark-haired man lounging on a settee.

  She caught her breath.

  Danvers.

  “Ah, good morning, Miss Cassandra Jones,” he drawled, his voice rich and deep as black coffee.

  She could just picture his look of satisfaction. She needed his approval. He had the power to forbid her.

  He believed her guilty of causing Carrville’s early demise, and he intended to block her success with Froster.

  She didn’t want to see his look of satisfaction at having brought her here, to his house, to plead for his favor.

  She refused to look in his direction.

  She pretended not to notice him and turned to her right.

  A man with luxuriant, sandy blonde hair like a lion’s mane, and amber eyes, looked down at her, his face broadening into a smile.

  She returned his smile. “Lord Holston, how is Sally doing?”

  At the mention of his favorite mare, his eyes lit with affection.

  The animal had recently been ailing, and Holston had been beside himself with worry.

  They spoke in hushed tones for several moments, and she learned that the mare was slowly improving. He was being so magnanimous, more than she had expected from him, for he had made her a generous offer, one she had rejected.

  “Well, well, Danvers, what did you do to get so lucky as to have two such lovely ladies visit so early in the morning?” Lord Holston asked.

  Ladies. Sometimes the gentlemen intended to flatter her and Cassandra with such a term, yet it always made Miranda bristle.

 
; None of them had stood upon her entrance. They had remained seated, their bodies casually sprawled in those positions men take when only amongst the company of their own sex.

  Those men who smoked had not rushed to extinguish their cigars.

  No one had apologized for the vulgar jest that one of them had been telling the moment before Miranda’s entrance.

  And that really told the whole story, didn’t it?

  No gentleman considered them to be ladies, worthy of the same protections and privileges that ladies had. No lady had to earn her living or earn her security.

  But Miranda did.

  And she had a limited number of years in which to gain that security for herself and Mama. She must do her best to sparkle and glow then, mustn’t she?

  The soft touch on her shoulder startled her.

  “Gentlemen, would you please excuse us?” Danvers’ voice sounded close to her. The rich, deep tone sent alarm beating into her blood.

  She was all too aware of his fingertips resting lightly on her shoulder. A light touch but lingering.

  A touch that burned through his suede glove and the velvet of her sleeve.

  Those fingers moved ever so slowly. A gentle caressing motion, sending tiny tingling sparks over her flesh. Heat sweeping through her belly. That damnable sense of swelling deep, deep within her pelvis.

  How dare he!

  Heat swept through her blood, pure outrage. She stiffened. She couldn’t help compressing her lips. He had made her no proposal of protection and support. She wasn’t some tavern harlot available for petting and pawing by the public!

  When Carrville was alive, no man, gentleman or not, would have dared walk up to her and touch her.

  But Carrville was gone.

  Aunt Cassandra made a sound like clearing her throat. The censure communicated clearly to Miranda.

  Mind your place, hold your tongue.

  Miranda’s face flamed as Danvers continued to move his fingertips in that caressing, somehow dominating, sort of way. She hated that she had to allow such familiarity, especially with him. Hated that, of all the men who had sought her out since Carrville’s death, he was the one who could cause warmth to spread through her lower belly. Cause heat to spread lower.

  And lower.

  “I have something private to discuss with these…ladies.” Danvers’ deep, pleasingly-melodic voice seemed to rumble within her belly.

  Then it struck her, how his tone had turned ironic at the word ‘ladies.’

  That was the final insult!

  She jerked her head to face him.

  Large, heavy-lidded eyes stared down at her.

  Beautiful eyes, not the usual shade of blue but rich and vivid as lapis. Or was it that the outside of his irises were ringed in a darker blue, making the inner lighter color all the more intense?

  What did it matter what caused the effect? They were the most beautiful, fascinating eyes she’d ever seen, so unexpected in a man. A thick fringe of long, coal-black lashes and heavy though well-shaped dark brows accentuated the effect.

  Those gorgeous eyes betrayed his amusement. Cruel amusement and…intense dislike. That realization sent another wave of alarm pounding through her.

  Why the devil did this particular earl dislike her so much?

  And why, since her return to London, had he sought her each time she’d been out? And heaven above, why had he been determined to put his hands on her?

  And why did his touch give her such peculiar sparks? Like a tingling flame sparking along her flesh. Her belly doing a little flip-flop, as though she had been waiting for his touch.

  As though she would ever, could ever, want him to touch her.

  The very prospect made her bristle all the more.

  His thin yet supple-looking mouth stretched into a smile. The charm of that smile could have sent any woman swooning upon the richly-hewed carpet at his boots. His lean, elegantly chiseled face was as handsome as any woman’s dream of sin.

  But now his eyes glinted cold and hard as stones. He gave her shoulder a slight push. “Come, Miss Jones, you and I have a matter to discuss.”

  As he gently propelled her, Miranda found herself compelled to walk to the doorway with him.

  “Now wait just a moment,” Aunt Cassandra said.

  He stopped and turned to face her.

  The woman beamed him a smile of pure beauty. “Surely you can’t expect a young lady like Miss Jones to accompany you all alone.”

  “She’s not an innocent to be protected, is she?”

  Aunt Cassandra’s smile didn’t falter; indeed, it seemed to grow more radiant.

  There was always an odd sort of tension between Aunt Cassandra and Lord Danvers, despite their light, often playful banter.

  It made Miranda uneasy.

  Did it have something to do with the way Danvers treated her?

  Aunt Cassandra had laughed off Miranda’s questioning before. However, Miranda almost believed that Aunt Cassandra was just as intimidated by Danvers as she was.

  And few noblemen intimidated Aunt Cassandra.

  Or was it less intimidation and more an apologetic manner?

  But why?

  “My niece has something far more valuable to protect than mere innocence.”

  “And you have a vested interest in that, do you?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  He made a motion with his hand. “By all means then, come along.”

  In the corridor, he cupped Miranda’s elbow and escorted her, as though he were her swain.

  Her protector.

  The comparison made Miranda’s teeth itch. She focused on the click of his boots on the highly polished wood floor, on the gentle rustle of her skirts.

  All the while, his touch burnt into her upper arm. To her dismay, heat flooded her lower belly, making her knees rubbery. She didn’t even want to acknowledge that slow, steady flow of wetness between her legs. She was also too aware of his body so close to hers. The aroma of his cologne carried to her, reminiscent of sun-warmed woods, with a hint of something crisp and cool.

  So compelling was the scent, it evoked vivid memories of childhood walks in the woods on autumn days. She could almost imagine she walked there now, with him.

  The direction of her thoughts disturbed her, and she gave herself an inward shake, forced herself to concentrate on the mahogany wainscoting, the brass lamps in their sconces on the walls. They neared a doorway where a servant in rich claret-colored livery stood waiting.

  The servant opened the door, and Danvers canted his head in Cassandra’s direction. “Age before beauty,” he said, his voice deep yet hushed.

  The cruel humor in his tone took something away from the beauty of that rich, masculine timber.

  Aunt Cassandra preceded them, and he led Miranda to a chair and then saw to it that Aunt Cassandra was seated. He leaned against his desk, bracing his hands on either side of him. His coat fell away from his body, putting his cream-colored waistcoat on display. The satin clung to a flat midsection. Buff-colored wool trousers covered impossibly slim hips, the kind of masculine build that developed from countless hours of horsemanship.

  What a pity he was such a bastard, for he undeniably possessed many fine qualities.

  “Would you ladies like some tea and cakes?” His smile showed even white teeth and a squared yet elegant jaw. It put a sensual curve to his mouth.

  Miranda’s stomach did another of those odd little flip-flops. And strangely, she was no longer hungry in the least.

  Aunt Cassandra shot her a look that clearly said, remember to keep quiet.

  “We’re quite fine,” Aunt Cassandra said.

  “What brings you here today?” he asked, as though he did not know.

  Miranda bit back the heated words that rushed to her tongue.

  “My Lord Danvers, why have you decided to deny Miranda an invitation to your party?”

  “No insult is intended, but I must keep a very exclusive guest list.”

  “Miss
Jones would make a lovely adornment to any gentleman’s party.”

  Those gorgeous blue eyes focused on Miranda, narrowing slightly. “Stand for me, Miss Jones.”

  Miranda’s mouth dropped open.

  She was no slave on the block!

  Aunt Cassandra cleared her throat.

  Miranda jerked her gaze to her aunt’s.

  Aunt Cassandra nodded, ever so slightly.

  Miranda compressed her lips and tightened her fists, a silent protest.

  Carrville couldn’t protect her now. She would have to do what she must to gain entry to all the best events. On her own. No matter the cost to her pride.

  Anger shot through her as she rose.

  Lord Danvers leisurely scanned her with his gaze, from the crown of her hair to her hemline.

  He moved his head upwards slowly.

  She lifted her chin even higher as his eyes met hers.

  He immediately turned back to Cassandra. “There’s no denying she is a beauty.”

  Aunt Cassandra’s mouth dropped open slightly. “No denying…” She sputtered, apparently shocked into stupefaction.

  “There are many, many beautiful girls available in London.”

  “My niece is not just any girl!” Aunt Cassandra lifted her hand and swept the length of Miranda’s body, the paste emerald accents at the sides of her wrist glinting like green fire. “Look at her breasts, her waist. Look at the way she carries herself, just as graceful as any duchess.”

  “Graceful as a duchess, eh?” Cool amusement sounded in Danvers’ voice.

  Aunt Cassandra paled. Then two spots of bright scarlet flared in her cheeks. “She is a diamond of the first water.”

  Miranda’s ears burnt, not so much to hear her physical attributes discussed so openly. No, she’d become accustomed to the lack of modesty when her physical attributes were being discussed by Aunt Cassandra and her circle of older courtesans.

  But having to stand here and be presented to this particular haughty, cold man, and to have Aunt Cassandra suddenly begin to sound like a dockside madam selling Miranda’s virtue to the highest bidder, was nearly too much to bear.

  Danvers’ mouth twisted wryly. “If one fancies red hair.”

  Miranda’s cheeks heated with anger.