“I’m sure men have been saying that for centuries,” she managed to gasp, though every inch of her wanted to turn and lose herself in his arms. Curse him for that. “I realize you’re too far above me for a respectable connection, but that doesn’t mean—”
“It’s not about that,” he hissed. “It’s not about your station or your birth. For all we know, I might very well be a bastard, too, no matter what Mother claims.” He kissed her neck with such tenderness that it melted all the cold parts of her. “But as you well know, marriage can rapidly become a prison which neither party can escape. I’ve no desire to let it do that to us.”
He pulled her around to face him, his gaze boring into her. “What did your respectable marriage ever gain you? Happiness? We both know it did not. A sense of fulfillment? Not that, either.”
“It gained me my son,” she whispered. “And it’s for him that I must remain respectable.”
“And sacrifice your happiness for it? He won’t thank you for that, trust me.”
“He won’t thank me for dragging his name through the mud, either.”
“No one’s name would be dragged through the mud, I promise you.” He slid his hands up her arms to grip her shoulders. “We would be discreet.”
“I’d like to see you manage that,” she countered. “Especially when I’m heavy with your child.”
He stared at her as if thunderstruck. Then he shook off his surprise. “There are ways to prevent that.”
So she’d heard, while working in Spitalfields. But she’d also heard that men weren’t fond of such preventatives. “And you, of course, would be perfectly willing to use them,” she said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
“For you, I would. I have no desire to shame you by forcing you to bear my bastards. I know how you must feel about that.” His face was alight now, the face of a man who always got his way, at least where his bed partners were concerned. “And as for the son you already have, only think what I can offer him. I can give him more than you ever could on a companion’s wages. You know that’s true.”
She caught her breath. Oh, he was playing dirty now. “Leave Jasper out of this.”
He ignored her. “He’d go to the best schools, eat the finest food, have as many damned tin soldiers as he could cram into his room. He’d have servants at his beck and call, and a pony of his own if he wanted. He’d have a chance at being someone important.”
Heaven save her, he knew just what would tempt her. He didn’t try to offer her great riches or fine gowns for herself—he knew that wouldn’t sway her. But for her son, she would do much.
His gaze was full of promise. “I’d give Jasper anything his heart desired.”
“Until you tired of me,” she whispered.
“Stop saying that!” He fixed her with a glittering stare. “I would never tire of you. How could I?” He reached up to remove her spectacles and set them on the desk nearby. “You’re the only one who sees me for who I am, the only one who knows my secret shame and isn’t repulsed. Who wants me in spite of it.”
“I don’t want—” She halted, realizing the trap he’d laid for her. If she denied wanting him, she’d be saying that his “shame” repulsed her, which simply wasn’t true. “It doesn’t matter that I want you,” she managed in a last desperate effort to resist temptation.
It didn’t work. Triumph lit his gaze. “It bloody well matters to me.”
Then his mouth took hers, and she was utterly swept away. Because she’d been craving his kiss, his touch, his heat, ever since last night.
No, she’d been craving it far longer than that. Fool that she was, she’d spent half her life wanting someone to desire her, to find her irresistible. Pierce was right—she’d learned to hide that aching need from everyone.
Except him. He did see her, with all her imperfections and seething urges, and he still wanted her. It was so enticing that she couldn’t resist him. Not right now.
Then it dawned on her, as he rained kisses over her lips and cheeks and brow, that she had a third choice beyond being his mistress or staying here.
She could have him for tonight. Store up every moment with him for the time when he left.
“I want you, dearling,” he rasped as he filled his hands with her breasts.
She hesitated, wondering if she was mad even to consider such a thing. But she would regret it if she didn’t take this chance. For once in her life, she wanted to know what passion was like, what having a man desire her felt like. She wanted something real to fuel her dreams for the empty years to come.
The choice was easier to make than she’d expected.
She looped her arms about his neck. “I promised Jasper I would put him to bed, but after that . . . ”
Fire blazed in his face. “You’ll come to my bed.”
It was more an order than a question, but she nodded anyway. For tonight, she’d be his.
“Swear it,” he growled.
“Don’t you trust me?” She stroked back a wayward lock of his hair.
Foolish question. He didn’t trust anyone—his mother had made sure of that, whether she’d meant to or not.
Which was probably why he avoided answering the question directly. “I won’t risk having you run up to see your son or console my mother and then changing your mind.” His brooding gaze fixed on her as he caught her hand and kissed the back of it. “Swear it.”
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. “Very well. I swear I’ll come to your room as soon as I’ve seen to my son.”
That answer gained her a hot, ravening kiss that sparked her need for him into a bonfire, even in the chill of the room. When he finished and she was breathing hard and heavy, he reluctantly released her. “Go. But don’t be long.”
With a nod, she put her spectacles back on and hurried up to her room. As she passed the floor with the bedchambers, she wondered if she should check on the countess. It seemed cruel to leave her alone tonight.
But she just couldn’t face the woman right now, given what she was about to do. So she continued up to the room she shared with Jasper. She walked in to find him sound asleep and Maisie waiting for her.
“Her ladyship sent a note for you by one of the footmen,” Maisie said, looking up from her sewing. “It’s over there on the dresser. I’m surprised she didn’t bring it herself—she does enjoy being here when you put Jasper to bed.”
“Yes,” Camilla said as she read the note, relieved but not unsurprised to hear that the countess wanted to be left alone for the evening.
“I suppose she’s having another of her headaches and wants you to read to her,” Maisie said, obviously fishing for information about what was in the note.
“I have to go,” Camilla said, and shoved it into her pocket, hoping that Maisie would assume the reason for it without her having to lie. “I won’t be back too late.”
“Oh, it don’t matter.” Maisie yawned. “I’m going to bed soon as you leave. I’m near as tired as the poor lad was.”
“I suppose he ran you ragged today.”
“Not a bit. He was right happy to be outside, even in the cold. It was a joy to watch him.” The maid smiled. “This afternoon, he couldn’t stop talking about his lordship and the horses and how he was going to learn to ride a pony. It was very kind of his lordship to say he’d give the lad lessons.”
“Yes, very kind indeed,” Camilla managed. That was precisely why she couldn’t become Pierce’s mistress. Once he ended their liaison, it wouldn’t just be her heart that was broken.
She shook off that thought. Tonight, she was going to enjoy her time with him. Though she would make him do as he promised and use measures to prevent children. “Good night, then,” she told Maisie with a twinge of guilt for misleading the poor girl.
As she headed out of the room, she reminded herself that this was how it would be if she went to London with Pierce. She’d always be leaving Jasper with a maid while she went to meet her lover.
But even that
observation didn’t dampen the anticipation she felt as she rushed down the stairs and headed to his room.
Before she could reach it, the door opened, and he halted on the verge of coming out. He looked startled. “I was going to fetch you. You were taking too long.”
She felt a sudden perverse need to tease him. “I was just passing by, my lord, on my way to the kitchen. Since I was hungry, I thought—”
He yanked her inside the room, then shut the door and backed her against it. “I’ll take care of your hunger,” he rasped, and covered her mouth with his.
Every inch of her responded, leaping to be touched by him. She craved his kisses, relished the heat and pressure of his hard body. She could feel his arousal against her belly, and it incited her own desire. Even the smell of brandy on him and the taste of—
She tore her lips from his. “You had supper,” she accused.
He laughed. Jerking his head toward the table behind him, he said, “I told you I’d take care of your hunger.”
Sliding out from between him and the door, she walked to the table and her eyes went wide. Somehow, in the brief time she’d been upstairs, he’d fetched enough food for them both: slabs of cold ham and cheese, thick slices of bread, pears and walnuts, and something in a bowl that looked like . . .
“Almond blancmange?” she exclaimed as she whirled on him.
With a smile, he stripped off his coat and tossed it over a chair. “I know how much you like it. And fortunately Cook does, too, so she had it waiting in case we wanted a good supper. I stole it for you.” Eyes gleaming, he strolled over to pick up the bowl and slide a spoon into it.
“How very wicked of you,” she said as a thrill went through her. No one ever did such things for her. “Though it shouldn’t surprise me that you’re a thief as well as a rogue.”
“Don’t forget ‘seducer.’ ” He handed her the bowl, and as she took a bite of the blancmange, he circled around to stand behind her. Tugging her back against his firm body with one hand, he removed her spectacles with the other and set them on the table. “I’m rumored to be quite accomplished as a seducer.”
“Are you?” she murmured, and took another bite of blancmange. Then she offered him some, and when he bent his head over her shoulder to eat off her spoon, she twisted her head to kiss his cheek. “Even you, who don’t like desserts, must admit that it tastes very good.”
He caught her mouth in a long, hot kiss, then drew back. “Not as good as you taste, dearling.” Her blood quickened, especially when he cupped her breasts and fondled them shamelessly through her clothes, thumbing the nipples into fine points. “Though I’m happy that you enjoy it.”
“Oh, I do,” she said, savoring another bite of blancmange as he slid one hand down over her belly. She undulated against it, wanting it lower. “Keep feeding me blancmange,” she gasped out, “and you won’t need to seduce me. I’ll fall into your bed of my own accord.”
He chuckled. “You may not know this,” he murmured as he continued his roguish caresses, “but I’m famous for paying my chefs very well.” He nipped her earlobe, then soothed it with his tongue. “So even the most celebrated would happily come to work for my mistress. You could have all the rich desserts you could dream of.”
She nearly choked on her blancmange. Wily devil. Leave it to Pierce to try tempting her into accepting his offer with a promise of fine food.
But did he really believe he could gain her only by buying her? Did he think so little of himself?
She set the bowl on the table. “I don’t need a celebrated cook. I’m quite happy with the usual fare.”
He worked loose the buttons of her day dress. “Ah, but are you happy wearing another woman’s cast-off gowns? Because as my mistress, you’d never have to again. You’d have clothes made specifically to show off your spectacular figure.”
“I don’t need false flattery, either,” she said tartly, annoyed that he would stoop so far. “I know I’m plump.”
“It isn’t flattery, and it certainly isn’t false. I like women who feel like women, not lampposts.” Sliding her gown off, he began to unlace her corset. His breathing grew rough. “The first time I saw you, I desired you. And yes, you are pretty. It would give me great pleasure to dress you in clothes that convinced you of that.”
The idea enticed her in spite of herself. Sweet heaven, how could she be that shameful? This was why the local rector always railed against the temptations of the flesh. Because they were so very tempting.
As her corset came free, she wriggled out of it and turned to face him, wearing only her shift. “You said we’d be discreet. But dressing me up and parading me about town would hardly be that.”
His admiring gaze slid slowly down her, heated, hungry. He tore off his cravat and waistcoat, but his eyes never left her body. “We can be discreet without having to be recluses. London is large—if we choose the house carefully, we can live as we like without fearing that everyone is watching.”
More temptation. The idea of being with him, of living with him . . .
Ah, but she knew it wouldn’t be like that, no matter how much he wished it. Tonight was all they had.
So she would make the best of it. She reached up to unbutton his shirt, revealing a light dusting of dark brown curls as she opened it down to the placket, then pulled the tails from his trousers.
His voice turned ragged. “We could even go shopping and attend the theater, if we were careful about it.”
He yanked off his shirt, leaving his chest exposed, and she caught her breath. She’d guessed that he would be muscular and well-formed, but she hadn’t guessed it would have such an effect on her.
Kenneth had been a bit scrawny, nothing like the feast of male flesh before her. She wanted to touch, to caress, to rub herself all over him. What a wanton she was.
As if he read her mind, he grabbed her hands and placed them on his chest. A bit embarrassed, she avoided his gaze as she spread her fingers over the now tense muscles, reveling in how they jumped beneath her touch and how his heart raced at her caress.
How that made her own heart race.
He tugged loose the ties of her shift. “We could go to the museums or . . . take a boat along the Thames in the summer . . . ”
He trailed off when she slid her hand down to work loose the buttons of his markedly bulging trousers. His breath came in a harsh rasp now, yet he kept talking. “We could even . . . live close enough to the country . . . to keep horses and ride. I’d buy you the finest mount . . . with a beautiful saddle and . . . a neat little curricle for your own use. . . . Then I’d teach you to ride and drive and—”
“Shh,” she whispered. She couldn’t bear it anymore. “Stop trying to buy my affections.” She brushed a kiss over his lips. “You already have them.”
His eyes glinted obsidian in the firelight.
“Would I love for you to teach me all that, and buy me new clothes and the rest of it?” she went on, desperate to make him understand. “Yes. But if I became your mistress, it wouldn’t be for any of that.” Taking his hand, she pressed it against her chest where her heart pounded furiously. “It would be for this, for how you make me feel.”
A shuddering breath escaped him. “And how do I make you feel?”
She stretched up to kiss his mouth. “Like I can fly.”
With a groan, he caught her to him and kissed her with such fervent need that she thought her heart might explode. Oh, what was she going to do? She was falling in love with him.
And he didn’t want that.
So she gave him what he did want. She let him pull her shift off her, let him carry her to his bed. She let him lay her down and run his smoldering gaze over her while he finished stripping off his clothes. She didn’t flinch or blush or turn away from that hot, riveting stare.
Until he was naked. Then she had to look at him. And what a sight he was, all lean muscle and fine lines, a sweet symphony of a body that she wanted nothing more than to play.
He
reached over to pull out the drawer to the little table beside the bed. “Since I promised you I’d take preventative measures . . . ” He drew out a long sheepskin tube, then held it out to her. “Would you like to do the honors?”
She sat up to gape at it. “Do you carry such devices about with you as a matter of course?”
He laughed. “No. But after what happened last night, I figured you might be more amenable to sharing my bed if I could promise to protect you. And you’d be surprised what the tinkers at a county fair have for purchase, if you know how to ask the right questions.”
“That’s what you were doing this afternoon?”
“Among other things.”
With a shake of her head, she took the tube from him. “You really are quite a wicked fellow.” Though the fact that he was willing to wear such a thing touched her deeply.
“That’s what you like about me,” he drawled.
“Hardly,” she said with a sniff. “I like you in spite of that.”
But as she smoothed the covering onto his thick, jutting member, so much larger than her late husband’s, and he hardened even more, it dawned on her that their positions resembled those of the characters in that shocking drawing from Fanny Hill.
That’s when she finally blushed.
With a chuckle, he tied off the tube, then slid onto the bed and pulled her down to lie next to him. “For a widow, you sometimes seem very innocent.”
She frowned at him. “Forgive me if I don’t have your vast experience. I had only the one husband, and he mostly touched me in the dark when I was half asleep. I hardly ever saw him like . . . well . . . this.”
His gaze turned positively carnal. “You’d best get used to it,” he said in a husky murmur as he filled one hand with her breast. “Because I intend to be naked with you every chance I get.”
Then his mouth was on hers—as was his body—and she shut her eyes to savor it, putting her late husband thoroughly from her mind. Pierce whispered admiring compliments about her hair and her breasts and her belly, kissing each part with a mix of heat and tenderness, making her want and need and yearn—
’Twas the Night After Christmas Page 21
