The Demon's Mistress

by Jo Beverley

  “Strange, then, that some people become acknowledged beauties.”

  He looked around and discreetly indicated a young brunette surrounded by men. “I don’t know who she is, but I assume she is a toast.”

  “Miss Regis? Yes, she is much admired.”

  “I’m sure she is perfect to many, but I cannot admire a turned-up nose, and her smile is far too wide.” He looked back at her. “Your mouth, however, is perfect.”

  Her not-too-wide smile was making her cheeks ache. Did he know she didn’t want to send him off with a flea in his ear?

  “Perfect,” she echoed. “How lovely. What else about me is perfect, Major? I’m thirty-three years old and must hoard any compliments that still come my way.”

  “You’re barren,” he said. “And that is not a compliment.”

  Her breath caught. “And you are an uncouth swine, but you probably can’t help that, either.”

  They were both smiling, hiding their battle from those around.

  “Van’s marrying you for your money. If he needs money, I’ll find a way to get it for him.”

  “Are you Midas, then? He lost ten thousand in one night.” She watched in satisfaction as his smile disappeared. “Now, escort me back to my box.”

  At the door he halted, smile absent, hostility unmasked. “He deserves better than to marry for money, Mrs. Celestin. And he needs a family.”

  She agreed with him, but she couldn’t let that show. “I want his happiness, Major Hawkinville. For that reason, you are welcome to call at my house. You will understand, I’m sure, if I try to avoid you.”

  She went into the box alone.

  Van was finding shy Miss Embleborough hard work, but he kept an eye on Maria and Hawk at the same time. He might not have seen a great deal of his friend over the past ten years, but he could still read him. He was in a hawkish mood.

  Doubtless he thought Maria a heartless harpy and was riding to the rescue. As the bell sounded and people flowed back into their boxes, he managed to pass Miss Embleborough on to her brother, and paused with Hawk outside the box.

  He closed the door, leaving them alone in the corridor. “You can’t fight with Mrs. Celestin without picking a fight with me, you know. And I always win.”

  He said it lightly, but Hawk would understand that he was serious.

  “Only because you’ve always been a madman.” The tense look eased, however. “I probably did go a bit beyond the line.”

  “Why?”

  “She said you lost ten thousand in one night. What the devil have you been up to?”

  Van hadn’t wanted any of his friends burdened with his problems. “My father left debts.”

  “And you decided to add to them?”

  “I was trying to recoup them. You know I’ve always been lucky. Hawk, why were you picking a fight with Maria?”

  After a moment, Hawk said, “I suppose it’s mostly because of her husband.”

  “Celestin? You knew him?”

  “Only as a name. He was one of the worst suppliers of shoddy goods and short measure, but we could never pin anything on him. Very clever use of middlemen. It galls me to think of all that money on a woman’s back.”

  “Will it help to think of me benefiting from his ill-gotten gains?”

  Hawk laughed. “Zeus, yes! Can’t think of a better use at this point.” After a moment, he added, “Look, don’t throw a punch, but is it worth the money to marry a woman so much older?”

  Van thought of explaining. He didn’t mind revealing his follies to Hawk, but he didn’t want to put Maria in a worse light. Then he recalled an amber light, and a ravishing kiss that hadn’t been repeated. . . .

  “So,” Hawk said, smoothing over the silence, “at least you’ll be able to restore Steynings to all its former glory.”

  If Hawk thought this was a love affair, all the better. “That’s the idea. Look, I’d better go back in. Come round tomorrow and we’ll have more time to catch up. Have you seen Con yet?”

  “I’m fresh off the boat. Heard about your engagement and set off—”

  “—to save me, like George and the dragon? I don’t think poor Maria should be seen as a dragon.”

  Hawk grinned. “And you’re no trembling maiden. As for tomorrow, perhaps you’d better come to me. I’m staying at Beadle’s Hotel in Prince’s Street.”

  Clearly the disagreement between Hawk and Maria had been unpleasantly sharp. “Very well. Have you heard from Con at all?”

  “No. Haven’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Have you tried?”

  Van shrugged. “I didn’t want to clutter his life with my problems. Since Waterloo, since Lord Darius died, he has enough.”

  “Perhaps your clutter would have been a distraction.”

  It was a reproof, and perhaps warranted, but Van said, “He’d have felt obliged to lend me money, and his family’s never been wealthy.”

  “What about the earldom?”

  “I still wouldn’t want to dun off him. Forget it. Perhaps you should have come home sooner instead of playing around Europe.”

  “Playing around—?” Hawk sucked in a breath.

  Van knew he should apologize. Hawk had been cleaning up the bloody mess left by the battle, by mounds of corpses, by destroyed property, by allies turned to arguing among themselves over responsibility and reparation and even what to call the battle.

  The apology stuck, though, and after a moment Hawk said, “Come over and we’ll talk tomorrow.” He strode off, never looking back.

  Van leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, the sweet image of a pistol floating in front of him. He’d trained himself into a demon of destruction. Perhaps there came a point of no return.

  He’d thought some things endured, particularly his lifelong friendships with Hawk and Con. But if Con needed his friends, he’d not found one in him, and now he’d lashed out at Hawk.

  Perhaps there was no going back. He could reroof Steynings and bring the land into good heart again, but he doubted he could re-create past happiness in a house empty except for ghosts.

  He might be able to do it with Maria’s help.

  He couldn’t tell if this feeling was love, frustrated lust, or an insane kind of dependency, but he realized that his bleak mood, his bitterness, his attack on Hawk all grew out of the rapidly approaching end of his service to Maria.

  And she insisted that he not touch her in any intimate way.

  He knew what he ought to do. He ought to prepare to bid her a courteous farewell, leave to restore his home, then pick a young lady like Miss Embleborough to marry and have children with.

  He’d rather shoot himself.

  Maria entered her house on Vandeimen’s arm as usual, and as usual they all took a light supper and chatted. She thought he looked strained, and hoped desperately that he hadn’t fought with his friend over her. She silently berated herself for letting Major Hawkinville goad her, though how else she could have reacted, she didn’t know.

  Perhaps she should write an apology, though she’d done nothing wrong. It galled her that he, too, saw her as an aging harpy prepared to suck the blood from a younger man. Did everyone? Sarah Yeovil hadn’t spoken more than the briefest word to her since that medieval affair.

  And in a couple of weeks it would all be over.

  If she were a weaker woman, she’d sink into tears.

  Persistent Harriette was using Major Hawkinville’s appearance as a lever to open up discussion of Vandeimen’s friends and his home. He looked strained, but he was still in the room and talking, though saying little to the point.

  She found herself watching him through a prism of his friend’s eyes. Major Hawkinville hadn’t seen Vandeimen for nearly a year, she assumed, and he had been disturbed. That
was why he had attacked her.

  She remembered the incident before dinner, and Harriette’s words. A glossy shell with nothing inside.

  That was not true. There was a lot inside, all of it tangled, dark, and dangerous. And now, for some reason, he was pushed to a brink.

  When they separated to go to their bedrooms she tried to persuade herself that her concerns were only tiredness—hers or his. As her maid undressed her, however, and combed out her long hair then wove it in a plait, she worried.

  When she climbed into bed, she knew that tomorrow she must insist that they travel to Steynings.

  It was duty that drove her. She must correct the terrible wrong that Maurice had done to his family. By now, however, it was more than duty. She had to rescue him. She could bear to let him go, but she could not bear to let him fall back into the pit.

  It was as if she saw a wonderful person through crazed glass. His honor showed in the damnable fact that he’d never again tried to kiss her. His cleverness showed in the way he managed to exhibit devotion and passion in public without ever doing anything improper.

  His natural kindness showed in many ways. He never made fun of anyone. He would dance with clumsy shyness as if with a beauty, talk with a bore as if with a wit, smooth over rudeness so it was almost unrecognized.

  He even spent time with Tante Louise and Oncle Charles, and no one would deny that they were a sour old couple who constantly carped at each other and the world.

  She began to see, however, lying there in the dark, that all his kindnesses came from dogged duty, the same sense of duty that had driven him into the next battle, and the next, and the next.

  Dogged? He had been a madman, an enthusiast, hadn’t he?

  Now she wondered, wondered if it had been more a case of never doing things by half measures, and whether that was what he was doing now, bleakness still in his heart.

  And what exactly was he doing now, this very minute?

  She tried to tell herself that he too had gone to bed, but something was screaming that he hadn’t. That he might have his pistol in hand again. After a struggle, she climbed out of bed and reached for her wrap.

  Oh no. Definitely not. She was not going to look for him in her nightgown!

  Feeling more foolish by the moment, she put on a shift, dug through her drawers for one of her light corsets that hooked up the front, then for her simplest round gown. She wound her plait around her head and pinned it in place.

  When she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw a woman blatantly well past the blush of youth in a plain gown, with plain hair and no ornament. She turned toward her jewel box, but then stopped herself. To decorate herself would put a wicked twist on this errand.

  Grabbing her candlestick, she went out to make sure that her demon was not bent on something hellish.

  The house was still. Surely everyone except herself was sensibly asleep. She knew she couldn’t sleep until she had made a thorough check, however.

  The ground floor was peaceful. She went back upstairs and checked the drawing room. Nothing.

  She paused in the corridor, accepting what she’d always known. Whatever Vandeimen was up to, he was in the privacy of his bedroom, and she could not invade there.

  Yet she could not let this rest.

  She allowed herself to creep down to his door and listen.

  Silence.

  There, see. He was asleep.

  Then she heard something. A movement, no more, but it suggested that he wasn’t asleep.

  He could be ready for bed.

  Even naked.

  She stood there, watching candlelight play red and black on the gleaming mahogany of the door panels, hearing only silence. Then, with a sigh and a wince, she gave a tiny tap on the door.

  A voice. She couldn’t tell what he’d said, but she turned the knob and peeped in.

  He was sprawled on the floor in breeches and open-necked shirt, head and shoulders supported by the chaise near the empty fireplace. The room had been in darkness, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes for a moment.

  “Devil take it, it’s the angel again,” he muttered, lowering his hand and staring at her. An empty glass was almost falling out of his other hand, and a half-empty brandy decanter sat on the floor nearby.

  She almost berated him, but stopped herself. That would do no good. She closed the door behind her, thinking, thinking.

  It had all been illusion these past weeks. He was still the half-drunk man who’d been about to kill himself, and she still had to save him.

  Chapter Seven

  “What’s the matter?” he said in a voice turned lazy by drink. “No one’s going to know except Noons, so I’m not breaking the rules.”

  A chair sat opposite the chaise on the other side of the fireplace. She went cautiously toward it, but then at the last moment she turned to the table of decanters. She put her candlestick there, took a glass and the decanter of claret, and sat on the floor in front of the chair, facing him.

  She filled the glass, then placed her decanter on the floor in mirror image of his and took a drink. “There are certainly times when getting drunk seems like an excellent idea.”

  Guarded eyes rested on her as he sipped. “You mean there are times when it doesn’t?”

  The bleakness hit her, but she tried not to show it. She didn’t know what she was doing here, but she knew she mustn’t fall into emotion. “Did you get drunk before battle?”

  “Not on purpose.” He shifted slightly, relaxing. He was, at least, willing to talk. “Some did. They tended to die. Perhaps happier than the ones who died sober. Or even the ones who lived . . . I was caught in the bottle once or twice. . . .”

  He eyed his almost empty glass and the decanter, and then went about filling it with notable care.

  Maria sipped her wine. This was the first time he’d mentioned the darker side of war. Was that good, or bad? Was it war memories that chained him in the dungeons, or the loss of his family, or both? She couldn’t wipe one away, or bring the other back. She had to try to give him reason to live.

  “Why did you join the army?” she asked, as if making idle conversation. “You were an only son.”

  “Still am. Last of the line as well. All the hopes and expectations of the Vandeimens rest upon these paltry shoulders.” He toasted her and drank. “You have a lot of hair.”

  Instinctively, she touched the tight knot of plait, but she stuck to her purpose. “So, why did you join the army?”

  The eyes half-glimpsed beneath lazy lids suddenly shot wickedness. “Let down your hair and I’ll tell you.”

  Perhaps she should rise and leave now, but she knew she couldn’t abandon him here like this. She could call his bluff, but she suspected that Demon Vandeimen never bluffed.

  She raised her hands and pulled out the pins, letting the braid fall heavily down her back. “Don’t think to play your games with me, sir. You’ll neither win nor escape by pretending to desire me.”

  “Pretending? You can come over here and feel if you want.”

  Her breath caught and she couldn’t help glancing at his crotch. She hastily looked up. “So, why did you join the army?”

  “That isn’t really down,” he complained, but then said, “The others were. Why not?”

  “The others?” Her mind was stuck on his earlier words, however. He was aroused? Now? By her? A responsive beat began between her thighs.

  “Con. Hawk.” He knocked back an irreverent amount of her very good cognac. “Con was a second son and willing to do his duty. Defeat the Corsican Monster. Save the women and children of England from invasion, rape, and pillage. Hawk saw a way to escape his family. As for me . . . what more could a sixteen-year-old who fed on excitement and challenge desire?” Those dangerous eyes met hers again. “I feed off excitement lik
e a vampire feeds off blood, dear lady. Do you want to come over here and let me drink your pale, angelic blood?”

  “No,” she lied, beginning to burn with raw lust. She should leave. . . . “And my blood is as red as yours, I assure you.”

  “All the better.” He put down his glass and shifted to begin crawling over to her. In another man it might have been clumsy, but she immediately thought of a wolf, a lithe and lethal wolf. She wanted to flee, but she knew that would be disastrous. And part of her wanted to stay, even to bleed. . . .

  He knelt beside her on all fours and raised a hand to her neck. “So pale, so pure . . .”

  “I’m a widow.” Despite fingers stroking her neck, she used a cool tone, trying to deny all this, trying to summon the strength to flee.

  His eyes were close now, intense, pupils large in the dim light. “You shouldn’t have chained me, dear widow, if you didn’t need me.”

  Need. She did need him. It had been so long, and here was that danger that always drove her wild.

  It was real danger now. Not her husband, who had only pretended because it excited her, and that excited him. It was this wild and wounded young man with heat and sex rising off him like steam.

  A wise woman would get up and run.

  A decent woman would save him from himself.

  Mouth dry with fear and longing, she whispered, “Do you need a woman, Vandeimen?”

  “I need you.”

  “Then take me.”

  He kissed her with brandy-soaked heat and greedy passion, and she kissed him back as fiercely, sprawled against the seat of the big chair. It had been so long, too long, and he tasted like hell and heaven combined.

  Then she was flat on her back, her legs up over his shoulders and him in her, deeply, fully, in her. He reared up, hands on the floor on either side of her head, eyes triumphantly on hers.

  Magnificent. Beautiful. Virile.

  Lethal—and she loved it.

  She clutched his arms, moving, then firing off into her own particular hellfire heaven.

  When she opened her eyes, swooningly pleasured, she was still locked in position with him, wishing she could see behind his closed eyes and set face.