Unmasking the Duke's Mistress

by Margaret McPhee

  The men did not look pleased, but Dominic met their gaze directly, knowing that he could handle himself against them. They looked back but only for a moment, then deliberately moved their attention elsewhere.

  Hunter stood by his side.

  ‘Best not leave Northcote here. They will only chew him up all the more and spit him out afterwards,’ he said quietly to Hunter.

  So the two of them guided Northcote out into the street.

  After the haze of cigar and pipe smoke within the den the clear chilled night air seemed to hit Northcote so hard that the boy staggered.

  Dominic hailed a hackney carriage and helped Hunter manoeuvre Northcote into it.

  ‘You are not coming with us?’ Hunter asked.

  Dominic met his friend’s eyes. An unspoken understanding passed between them.

  ‘You do not have your cane with you tonight,’ said Hunter.

  Dominic said nothing, just looked at his friend resolutely.

  Hunter gave a sigh. ‘Very well. Just have a care if you are so intent on walking to her,’ said Hunter. ‘The coves back there were not too keen to let you go. It is only a little after midnight and they had hoped to fleece you for hours yet. Watch your back, Dominic.’

  ‘I will.’ Dominic clapped Hunter on the shoulder and watched the carriage depart before he turned and began to walk in the opposite direction.

  He had not gone far when he became aware that he was being followed. He scanned the street, seeing that one of the lamp-posts was out a little further along, just at an opening between the buildings. A nice dark spot and a conveniently positioned alleyway. He knew that was where they would attack him.

  They struck just where he had expected. Two attackers, one large and burly, the other smaller with no teeth in his head. He recognised them both from the gaming den.

  He dodged back into the alley to avoid the first punch.

  ‘Not so fast, your Grace,’ a coarse voice said so close to his ear that he could smell the foulness and feel the heat of the fetid breath. A fist swiped close to his face. Dominic ducked and retaliated with a blow hard and low in the belly and had the satisfaction of hearing the man grunt and stumble away clutching at his guts as he bent double and retched against the alley wall. As he turned the second assailant was almost upon him. Dominic twisted to avoid the blow arcing towards him, and managed to avoid the blade—almost. The sting of it sliced across his ribs.

  Dominic grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted. He heard the soft crack of bone and the yelp of pain as the man fell to his knees cradling his wrist. The knife clattered to land in the wet and filth of the cobblestones below. Dominic picked it up, and then grabbed the kneeling man’s hair, jerking his head back and touching the edge of the blade against the exposed throat.

  ‘See that the same does not happen to my friends. Do you understand?’

  The man croaked a desperate acquiescence.

  Dominic pushed the man away, then walked to face the man cringing against the wall, touching the knife’s tip ever so lightly against the fat of the villain’s belly. ‘You too.’

  ‘They won’t be harmed, I’ll see to it personally, your Grace,’ the rogue promised.

  Dominic stared at him for just a moment longer and then he slipped the knife into his pocket and walked away.

  The ruffians were kicking at the door, laying siege to it with a hammer. The thuds of the splintering wood reverberated right through Arabella’s body. She protected Archie with her body, but the men pulled her aside and wrenched the golden locket from around her neck. And when she looked across the road to the other side of the street where the narrow houses with their boarded windows should have stood, she saw the park and her mother standing waiting there. It was all mixed up and wrong, of course, but Arabella did not notice that in her nightmare.

  She woke suddenly, with that same panicked feeling of fear in the pit of her stomach. But the sky was still dark with night, and she remembered that this was Curzon Street and there were no robbers and thieves here. She breathed her relief and relaxed her head back down on to the luxury of a soft feather pillow, and as she did she heard a voice cry out in shock. The cry was cut off as if abruptly hushed. She heard the low murmur of voices in the hallway below, the quiet opening and closing of a door. Hurried footsteps across the marbled floor tiles of the hallway.

  Archie!

  Arabella scrambled from the bed and, using only the glowing remains of the fire to guide her, was out of the bedchamber door and running down the stairs.

  All of the wall sconces in the hallway had been lit. A maid, clad in her nightdress and robe, was coming out of the library with a bottle of brandy in her hand.

  ‘Anne?’

  ‘Oh, ma’am!’ The girl jumped and spun round and Arabella could see that her face was wet with tears.

  ‘What is wrong? What are you doing?’ The fear was squirming in Arabella’s stomach.

  ‘I got such a fright when I saw him.’ The maid’s face crumpled and she began to sob again.

  ‘What has happened, Anne?’

  The drawing door opened and James the footman appeared. ‘What on earth is taking you, girl? I would have been quicker fetching it myself.’ And then he saw Arabella, and gave a quick bow. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am. I did not see you there.’

  ‘What on earth is going on here?’ Arabella demanded.

  ‘It’s the master, ma’am.’

  ‘Dominic is here?’ The thought had not even entered her head. Even though it was his house. And she was his mistress.

  ‘His Grace has had a bit of an…accident.’

  ‘An accident?’ Arabella’s stomach dropped to the soles of her feet. Her heart was thumping a fast frenzied tattoo of dread.

  The footman lowered his voice even more. ‘Not the best of sights for a lady to see, but he won’t let me fetch a doctor, ma’am.’

  A chill of foreboding shivered right through her. She pushed past James into the drawing room.

  Three branches of candles had been lit, yet still their warm flickering glow did not reach to the shadows of the room, nor barely touched the tall dark figure that stood near to the cold fireplace. He had his back to her, but he appeared to be as he ever was, smartly dressed in dark tailcoat and pantaloons, with the air of authority and arrogance that he carried with him. He seemed well enough. She could smell the damp night air that emanated from his still figure. One hand hung loose by his side, the other looked to be tucked into the inner breast pocket of his tailcoat.

  ‘I should not have come,’ he said without looking round. ‘I had not realised that the hour was so late.’

  ‘James said you met with an accident.’

  ‘James exaggerates. I did not mean to wake you. You should go back to bed.’ Still he did not move. And the apprehension that had faded on her first sight of him was back as if it had never left.

  ‘What has happened, Dominic?’ she asked carefully.

  He turned then, and still nothing appeared out of place, except that his right hand remained tucked beneath the left breast of his tailcoat.

  ‘A minor altercation. Nothing of concern. As I said, go back to bed.’

  And then she caught sight of the dark ominous stains upon the white cuff that protruded beneath the dark woollen sleeve of his coat and, lifting the closest candelabrum, she walked towards him.

  ‘Arabella,’ he said, holding out his exposed hand as if to stay her. But she kept on closing the distance between them, for she had a horrible fear of just what those stains were.

  ‘This is not for your eyes.’

  She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. Her body felt stiff and heavy with dread. ‘Take off your coat.’

  ‘Arabella…’ One last warning.

  She ignored him and took hold of his lapel, pulling back the left breast of his tailcoat.

  She gasped at the sight that met her eyes. His white shirt and waistcoat were sodden with blood. She froze, and in that single moment everything changed in her worl
d.

  ‘Dominic!’ she whispered.

  His hand took hers, his grip strong and reassuring. But she felt that it was wet and when she looked she could see the blood that stained it glisten in the candlelight.

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘It is but a scratch that bleeds too much.’

  But there was blood everywhere, and all of it was his.

  ‘Go. James will help me.’

  She took a deep breath and raised her gaze to his. Their eyes held for a fraction of a second, a heartbeat in which everything she had told herself she felt about him these years past was revealed as a lie.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I will help you.’ And then she glanced round at the footman and prepared to do what she knew must be done.

  Dominic watched as Arabella shifted from shock to take charge of the situation. She sent the maid for clean linen and a glass, and instructed the footman with equal calm proficiency, directing James to help divest him of his upper clothing while she half-filled the glass with brandy.

  Only once he sat on the sofa wearing only his pantaloons did she pass him the glass. ‘Drink it.’ Her voice was calm, but brooked no refusal.

  He did not argue, just did as she directed, downing the contents in one go.

  As he drank she rolled up the sleeves of her nightgown, tore a strip off the linen and dowsed both it and her hands in brandy.

  Then she sat down by his side, eased him back a little against the sofa.

  Her gaze met his. ‘This is going to sting,’ she warned. And her eyes held a concern that Dominic had never thought to see there again. It touched his heart much more than he could ever have imagined.

  ‘Do your worst,’ he murmured.

  He could not prevent himself flinching from the initial touch of the brandy to the wound and saw the pain mirrored in Arabella’s eyes. Yet she did not hesitate, or weaken from her purpose.

  Her touch was gentle, her movements reassuring. She worked methodically and with a calmness that seemed to stroke away his tension despite the pain. With strip by patient strip of brandy-soaked linen she cleansed the blood away until all that remained was a thin red line against the paleness of his skin.

  ‘We should send for the doctor. He may wish to stitch the wound.’ She had not looked at him, not once, since she had taken control of the situation.

  ‘No doctor,’ he said. ‘The cut is shallow. A week of binding and the skin will knit together well enough.’

  ‘Dominic—’

  ‘No doctor,’ he said again.

  ‘Very well.’ She laid a pad of linen against the wound, then bound it in place. And then she got to her feet, passed the tray of bloodied rags to James.

  ‘Thank you, James, Anne. You may leave us now.’

  She waited until the door closed behind the servants before she sat back down. Side by side they sat on the sofa. Not looking at one another. Not speaking a word. The tension was still between them. But it was different somehow, as if some barrier that had been there before had given way.

  The silence seemed to stretch between them.

  He slipped his hand to cover hers.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what happened tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘A small disagreement with two gentlemen from a gaming den.’

  ‘I did not know you frequented such places.’

  ‘There is a lot you do not know about me, Arabella.’

  ‘And too much that I do know,’ she said quietly. ‘I cannot forget…’

  ‘Nor can I.’

  The clock’s ticking seemed too loud. It seemed to match the beat of his heart.

  ‘It was not supposed to be like this, Arabella.’

  ‘None of it was supposed to be like this,’ she said and he heard the huskiness in her voice.

  ‘Arabella.’ He looked at her, willing her to look round at him.

  She shook her head at first, but he could hear the slight sob in her breath. He stroked his thumb against her fingers where his hand covered hers.

  She turned her face to his, then met his gaze, and the emotions he saw there were as raw and aching as those that beat in his own heart.

  ‘Dominic,’ she whispered and the tears spilled from her eyes. He took her in his arms and he kissed each one away and then he held her.

  He held her and the minutes passed.

  He held her. And then as if by some silent communion they both rose. He blew out all save one branch of candles, then he took her hand in his and together they walked out of the drawing room.

  Chapter Nine

  Within her bedchamber they spoke not one word. Dominic stripped off his pantaloons, while Arabella unfastened the ties of her nightdress and loosened it so that it slid down her body to lie in a white pool around her feet.

  The candles flickered upon the nightstand, so that she could see him standing there naked. His body as tall and strong and well muscled as she remembered. A sprinkling of dark hair covered his chest and narrowed to a line that led down to his manhood. His skin glowed a honey gold in the candles’ light, the whiteness of the linen bandage stark against the rest of him.

  There was no need for words. She sensed his feelings as keenly as her own. She wanted him. And needed him. Not out of lust. Not even out of desire. The need ran at a much deeper level than that, in a place that touched both her heart and her soul. She did not analyse the feeling. Nor did she think about the past.

  Arabella knew only this moment. Dominic was alive. And that, had a blade pressed a little harder this night, he would not be.

  She placed her palm upon his chest over his heart and felt its strong steady beat. Beneath her fingers she could feel the roughness of his chest hair and in her nose was the scent of brandy and cigar smoke mingled with Dominic’s cologne.

  He threaded a hand through her hair at the scalp, angling her head so that he could look into her eyes.

  She did not look away. She did not try to hide anything. They looked at each other with an honesty that belonged only to that moment. His eyes were deep and dark and sensuous and in them was a vulnerability that she had never ever thought to see.

  Slowly he lowered his mouth to hers. Their lips touched, the kiss small and gentle. And touched again, before stilling so that their lips rested together, not kissing, but sharing their breath. She slid her hands up from his chest, to dip her fingers into the hollow between his collar bones, before spreading out to slide across the tense hard muscle of his shoulders. Their faces were so close she could feel the brush of his eyelashes every time he blinked.

  His free hand followed down the line of her arm to capture her hand in his, hooking both their hands against the small of her back to arch her body all the closer into his. His chest was hard as a rock, the hair that covered it rough against her nipples. Her breasts felt heavy and sensitive, and deep in her belly was a heat that had never expired. She could feel the call of his body and the answer of her own. Just as it ever was, except this time it was different. She could feel the difference. And she knew that he could feel it too.

  He bit gently at her lower lip, then salved the nip with his tongue. She tasted him, opened to him, felt his tongue accept the invitation as his lips slid against her own. They kissed. A deep sensual coupling of their mouths. A sharing of such intimacy and tenderness. They kissed and his every breath, every stroke of his tongue, every touch of his lips was a caress of her soul.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, drawing her in so that she was standing straddling his thigh. He kissed her again, then trailed his mouth down over her neck, his breath hot, his tongue tasting her. His hands caressed her breasts, weighing them, stroking skin that was sensitive to his touch, teasing at peaks that were already beaded hard. His hands stilled, his thumbs resting lightly on her nipples, as his gaze slid up to hers. And then, keeping his eyes locked on hers, he shifted one thumb aside and leaned his mouth down to take her nipple into his mouth.

  He did not suckle. He did not even move his lips, but his breath was hot and
moist against her. He was still watching her when his tongue began to flick against the tender swollen bud. A low soft moan escaped Arabella. She arched her back, driving her breast harder against his mouth. He began to kiss her nipple, to suck it, while his thumb and fingers worked upon the other. When she felt the gentle scrape of his teeth, she clutched that dark head to her, watching his mouth work thoroughly against first one breast and then the other.

  His hands found her hips and drew them lower so that she felt the tease of the hairs on his broad muscular thigh against the hot wet centre of her womanhood. Her grip shifted to his shoulders and tightened as he rubbed his thigh gently against her. Arabella moaned again and slid higher up his thigh, until she could feel the probe of his manhood against her hip.

  They stilled, his mouth coming back to find hers. And when he rolled her on to the bed their bodies clung together. He lay on his uninjured side, clutching her to him. And she could feel the raggedness of his breathing and the race of his heart as they positioned their legs to minimise the strain on his wound. And when at last she welcomed him into her body it had never felt so right. There was no dominant, no submissive. Nothing of taking, only of sharing. They moved together in a partnership, both rejoicing in their union and striving to the same end.

  They loved, for there could be no other word for it. And Arabella was only aware of the moment and the man. Dominic filled her senses. Dominic filled her body.

  ‘Dominic,’ she gasped as she exploded into a thousand shards of shimmering pleasure.

  ‘Arabella,’ he groaned and she felt the warmth of his seed spill within her.

  They lay in each other’s arms, feeling the pulse of their bodies and the beat of their hearts.

  And eventually they slept.

  Dominic came every night to Curzon Street after that. And every night they made love. Arabella was no longer fool enough to believe that she could fight against the mire of complex emotions that she felt for Dominic. Since the night he had come to the house covered in blood she had known that much as she hated what he had done to her, she did not hate him. Indeed, there was a part of her that knew they would always be bound together, and not just through Archie. If Arabella had allowed herself to think too much of her situation it would have been unbearable.