A Mistress To Remember (Birds of Paradise Book 3)

by Eliza Lloyd

  The Earl of Compton had noticed her enough that he would consider her for a mistress. She was not immune to the fact a handsome gentleman had expressed interest. She shook her head. There was a compliment in there, she supposed.

  Her lady’s maid, Irma, helped her remove the layers of her evening gown along with the pins holding her hair in place. Neither of them was in a mood for small talk and after her lady’s maid fetched a cup of warm milk, Katrina dismissed her. A small fire burned in the hearth, so she curled in one of the winged-back armchairs nearby.

  A mistress?

  She had never considered such a thing, not that she was considering it now. Alone in her room, though, she was free to imagine the possibilities in a way she had not for a very long time.

  Samuel had not been adventurous in their bed. Katrina found she had been, at first, dutiful, and then curious. Then many long years of yearning for something more passionate. She did not think it was romance for which she pined. Samuel was as kind a man and husband as she could hope for, but there was no fire.

  A silly thing to want, she thought. What woman would not have been happy with such a man?

  Did it take a man such as Mark Turnbow to make her remember she wanted fire? Was it only with a lover that one could truly be free when it came to sexual pursuits?

  Warming from the actual fire and her thoughts, she squirmed in her chair. Her cup of milk should be making her feel sleepy, not this deep sexual languor and longing.

  Sometimes her desire for a man, any functioning man, was undeniably physical.

  She did not want to attribute her slow arousal to anything Mark Turnbow had suggested. There were just times of the month when she was more attuned to her need. It had taken a few years before she understood she could assuage that need whenever she felt such urges.

  In Italy, many years ago, she had found her first diletto—blown Venetian glass with a pearly vein running through the center of the shaft and then blossoming into a marble-sized burst. No one had to explain its use—the smooth, slightly curved shape of the glass and the flanged head were very distinctive. When the shopkeeper saw her interest, he invited her into the back room, where she’d had a very unusual conversation using hand gestures. She had left with four diletto of varying shapes and sizes. She’d never told Samuel, though she knew her lady’s maid was wise to Katrina’s secret.

  No, she wasn’t naïve—so why had Lord Compton’s request shocked and embarrassed her as it had?

  Katrina pushed from the chair, ensured her doors were locked and went to the armoire, searching for a certain diletto, her faithful companion since Samuel had died—or should she say, a more faithful companion. She reached for one but selected another, one with a bit more thickness and a long, smooth shaft, with a leather cuff at the end that made it easier to grip.

  She washed it, enjoying the smooth, cool feel of the instrument against her palm and fingers. Already she felt the wetness between her legs. She strolled toward the Greek flokati rug in front of the fireplace. The brush of her rail tickled her legs. Her breasts swelled as she thought of brushing them with the tips of her fingers.

  The oil she applied last. Not that her body wasn’t wet enough, but she enjoyed the act of stimulation. Since Mark Turnbow was foremost in her mind tonight, could she not imagine his cock being held so gently in her hands?

  Perhaps that was why she selected the thick, crested glass. She could imagine Lord Compton was generously proportioned, or if not, he at least knew what to do with what he had, along with the experience to satisfy a woman who wanted what he had inside her.

  Katrina lay on the rug, relaxing for a moment. The rug was soft and smooth against her back. She wiggled a bit before lifting her rail. Her bare bottom came into pleasurable contact with the thick weave. She lifted her legs, bracing them against the brick fireplace ledge, now warmed from the long-burning embers.

  She tried to envision Mark coming to her, standing over her just now and staring with lust in his gaze. He would be bold, she knew, with a touch of politeness just as he was tonight. He did not say he wanted to bed her, but that was what his words meant.

  That he was bold enough to say he would bed her until he remarried put a clear point on what her position would be—sexual relief until he didn’t need her anymore. He had never considered her as a candidate for marriage.

  And why should he? He was in mourning.

  There was the embarrassment again. It was her pride that had been dented tonight. She was enough of a woman to bed but not to wed.

  The fire had heated her inner thighs. Rather than dwell on what wasn’t, she slowly inserted the warmed phallus. She arched against the tight pressure, allowing it to slide outward again. There was no rush. She had always enjoyed slow pleasure. Samuel had always been in a manly hurry.

  There were other things she would have liked. She would have liked to be completely naked, instead of him lifting her nightclothes. She would have liked more touching and intimacy—she wasn’t always wet when he pushed into her. She would have liked to be more of a participant, doing those things that interested her, pleasured her and tempted her.

  She would have liked to fall asleep with him in bed beside her, kissing her as she closed her eyes in peaceful slumber.

  And there when she woke in the morning.

  A mistress would have no such freedom. Her duty would be to pleasure her lover. She had no doubt she could be inventive and interesting. Or that he would be demanding and indefatigable.

  She would hate it if, and when, her lover leapt from their bed in search of his next wife.

  She would hate it when Mark Turnbow married another, leaving her behind and alone again. Maybe that was the biggest argument against such a decision. Would this taint her reputation to the point she would never find a suitable man to marry?

  At least aloneness didn’t mean lack of sexual pleasure. It was the next best thing to a man.

  The diletto slid easily, deeply into her again. She began a slow even thrusting, lifting her hips, surging and then pushing. Her breasts tingled. She used her free hand and cupped one, tweaking the nipple between her thumb and finger. Sweet, delicious pleasure spread downward.

  Rolling to her knees while holding the leather-handled phallus in place, she relaxed on to her haunches. She propped the shaft on the floor and sank fully on to it.

  Mark Turnbow was finely made. His shoulders were wide, his stomach and waist slightly lean. She would straddle him and take him deep, eliciting his groans of pleasure.

  She twisted her arms, allowing the rail to fall lightly downward. The thin batiste shift she wore to bed followed.

  She was naked, the wood fire burning at her back. Between her legs, intense throbbing.

  She cupped her breasts, letting her imagination supply the details—his hands were large and strong. They would knead her breasts softly but expertly. His mouth would suck her nipples until she stung, until the suction would be unbearable.

  Then his mouth would trail kisses over her body. He would lick behind her ear, at the hollow of her neck, the dent in her stomach. Would he go lower? Between her legs? Into her body? She would let him do anything her wished with her.

  Katrina rubbed the phallus faster, in short up-and-down movements. Her thighs burned with the effort. She pinched at her nipples, squeezing harder and harder. Finally, she allowed a moan to escape from her mouth. When the shaft was in deep, she freed one hand, searched between her legs for the throbbing nub and circled.

  She focused her efforts between her legs, squeezing against the tight, thick diletto. The consuming pleasure blocked all thought except the need to go higher and stay as long as possible. She held her breath. She squeezed and held. And held.

  It was glorious. A place that made her wish, “Let me stay. Don’t go. Longer. Wait. I need more. More.”

  Oh, God, more.

  The fall was bittersweet, leaving her thrashing against the hard contractions between her legs. Leaving her wanting something else.
r />   A man.

  She rolled to her side, keeping the phallus firmly wedged inside. She laid her head on her outstretched arm and felt the first prickle of tears and the clogging ache in her throat.

  It was awful to be alone.

  Alone in a country not her own. Alone except for three young sons whom she could never prevail upon or burden with her concerns.

  Tears bubbled up and then washed over the bridge of her nose, spilling on to the rug.

  The question wasn’t whether she should become Mark Turnbow’s mistress. The question was why hadn’t she taken a lover before now.

  * * * * *

  “Mama, you haven’t yet agreed to the hunting trip in Scotland. Uncle Peter wants to make plans,” Ivan said. He slathered fresh butter on a thick piece of toasted bread.

  “Every vegetable has its time,” she replied, before sipping at her coffee.

  “Mr. Altman says Russian proverbs are not easily translated into English. Now I understand what he means.”

  Katrina smiled. “Mr. Altman has never been to Russia. Otherwise he would agree with me.”

  “We would be careful, Mama,” Ivan pled.

  Ivan was all of fifteen now, looking every inch an Angerstein. All of them did. Samuel always boasted they came from good northern stock. They might have been Norseman from old with their blond hair and fair eyes, but their eyebrows were dark, which clearly defined them. The impression would be less noticeable if she could convince the oldest two, Ivan and Claud, to trim their hair more often. Sergei, her darling, always wanted to please her and wore his hair as a proper English lad.

  “Fall is still months away. There is time to decide later.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Sergei, her youngest, pronounced. “Mr. Altman has promised we will start Homer in the fall.”

  “Then stay home. One of the Highlanders might mistake you for a selkie,” Claud said, before returning his attention to a thick rasher of bacon.

  “Please Mama. You’ve only to say yes. Uncle Peter will take care of everything else,” Ivan implored.

  Which was exactly what Katrina feared. He already had too much influence over their lives. When the talk of a hunting trip first came up, Peter Klee had informed her they would be going. Her approval was a secondary consideration, but Ivan, being the conscientious boy he was, continued to seek her consent.

  The boys had never gone to a private school. Samuel had agreed they be taught the Russian language, its history and culture along with a standard British education. When Ivan was five, Samuel had engaged Mr. Altman, a Russian Jew—his heritage was similar to Katrina’s, though he’d been born in England.

  Samuel had set up a trust stipend to see them educated, money Peter could not lay a hand to, and therefore he did not dispute their education since no further funds would be depleted from the estate.

  “Uncle Peter says you could return home to Russia while we are away. We know you want to go,” Ivan said.

  “Only if you are able to go with me. I will decide soon enough.”

  “I would like to meet the tsar. Mr. Altman says the Angersteins are related to the Romanovs,” Sergei said.

  “Tosh. Enough of that. The Angersteins were nothing more than silversmiths. Finish your plates now.” Yes, they were distantly related, so distantly, it was now only a good dinner story.

  “We are late for our lessons,” Sergei reminded them, setting aside his linen napkin.

  “What a fine boy you are, Sergei. I believe you are Mama’s favorite this morning.”

  Claud reached for Sergei’s bacon. Ivan just smiled. “I promise we will be on our best behavior, when we go. And I will make sure Claud and Sergei behave.”

  “I know. I have complete faith in you.” She had no such faith in their uncle.

  After each of them kissed her cheek, they hurried off in the direction of Mr. Altman’s classroom. She devoted as little time as possible wondering what Peter Klee’s plans were other than to diminish her influence over her sons.

  And other unthinkable things she refused to consider. If ever two brothers were more different…

  Katrina’s thoughts turned to the more unnerving and interesting proposal of the Earl of Compton.

  She could dither about it, but hadn’t she already decided to say yes? Imagining he was in the room with her last night while she pleasured herself was proof enough she desired such a relationship, perhaps needed it. She hesitated to use the word crave—she was not a complete Philistine. Urges did not control her, but the thought of a playful, unthinking interlude had appeal.

  While he was entering such a liaison for the availability of sexual intercourse, she had to decide what her needs were. She would not say yes just because he had singled her out, though she could admit that it stroked her pride a bit.

  She must set aside romantic notions of marriage. Her immigrant status, her social circumstance, her age—all worked against her in trying to secure a new marriage partner. He’d made that clear.

  So, yes, she wanted the sexual intimacy and wanted to explore the unknown pleasures such a relationship promised. She also needed funds of her own. Mostly she needed someone who might shield her and her family against Peter’s machinations, if necessary. Maybe the earl could be a champion too, as Geral had been.

  The single Earl of Compton could provide everything except a shelter for her family. Entering this arrangement would be, by necessity, very private.

  As long as she could keep Peter Klee from finding out. He might be the children’s guardian, but he was also a strict moral drudge who seemed intent on controlling Katrina’s decisions.

  But maybe not this time.

  Chapter Two

  She was going to say yes.

  If she didn’t, her rejection would be a rather severe blow to his ego. Something he’d actually recaptured after his marriage. Odd how money could make a man feel—

  Yet, it wasn’t really having money that built-up his pride; it was the lack of money that sapped his self-respect and confidence. The surprise inheritance of the family title didn’t hurt either, though it came at the high price of his brother’s death.

  Mark had allowed Katrina a few days to decide; it was unseemly to pressure her, but his patience was thin. He had made arrangements by letting a home in a private, respectable district that included a convenient carriage house, fashionable furniture and, he was assured, a discreet staff.

  If she said no, he would eventually find another mistress, though walking through the home’s white and gold sitting room and the large expanse of the bedroom on the third floor, he could only imagine Lady Klee occupying this place.

  She was choice, and he had honestly not given consideration to any other woman but her.

  Rather than accost her at another ball, he went in search of a gift. A very specific gift.

  Now that he had made the decision, he was anxious for consummation. In fact, he had thought of little besides the Baroness naked beneath him.

  He rode his horse to his preferred jeweler and made inquiries as to where he might find a certain type of bracelet. By noon the following day, it was in his possession: an Angerstein-crafted silver and pearl band nearly two inches wide.

  The gift was boxed, and he penned a note before it was delivered by messenger.

  Would she meet him at eleven this evening?

  Waiting until then would be torture.

  By five, he was alone in his bedroom, reaching into his trousers to free his cock. He sat in a comfortable chair, stroking his manhood, dreaming of Lady Klee and all they might enjoy together. He spilled copious amounts of seed into a towel, and by six he was rock-hard and ready again. It had been months since he had been with his wife, sometime after she’d announced her delicate condition. And now many weeks later, the urge for Katrina could no longer be denied. He was more than ready.

  And his mind, finally, was clear of the dread and sadness that had weighed him down. Even the guilt he carried over his sister’s shame and his part in it
seemed diminished.

  He’d sent an unmarked carriage for her. If it came back empty he would have his answer. A premature sting of disappointment bolted through him, imagining that possibility.

  He bathed, dressed and arrived at the comfortable townhouse at ten, a footman greeting him. The candles were lit. In the bedroom, a small feast adorned a lavish table, including two bottles of wine. Mark grabbed one of the apples, prettily stacked in a pewter bowl, and took a bite before walking to the window overlooking the street. It was hell to wait.

  He leaned against the window jamb and glanced back at the bed, turned down invitingly. Once she was naked in that bed, he wanted to enjoy the sight most thoroughly. His wife had rarely allowed him to see her unclothed.

  He took a large bite of the apple; a satisfying crunch sounded.

  Yes, once naked he would devour the sight of her.

  After that, he’d bury his face between her legs and devour her properly. He licked his lips thinking about the possibilities from there. Another large bite of the apple was all he would get for now.

  The carriage arrived early, the horses clopping along the cobblestone to herald her approach.

  Parting the curtain, he uttered a small prayer. When the coachman jumped down and went to the carriage door, Mark allowed himself a breath to calm his sudden nerves.

  He watched as she descended from the carriage. His cock leapt and he felt breathless with anticipation. Had he been this giddy since he was ten, waiting for his Christmastide orange and five pennies?

  He hurried from the room and met her at the bottom of the stairs, just as she swept back the hood from her white velvet cape trimmed with fur. Gracefully, she removed her gloves and handed them to the footman. He then assisted with her outer garment.

  “You came,” Mark said.

  “You persuaded me, Lord Compton.” She curtsied, a brief dip that revealed daring cleavage.

  The footman disappeared down the hallway. Mark could not take his gaze from her refined elegance and perfection—everything from the twisted curls in her hair down to the lay of pleated folds in her skirts.