A Mistress To Remember (Birds of Paradise Book 3)

by Eliza Lloyd

  When she was out of her dress, her underthings followed until she was naked. Mark had turned toward her, his gaze dark and hooded. She reached for the coverings and turned them back slowly before bracing her knee against the bed.

  “Will you be joining me?”

  It was much easier to be a wife, she thought, but then frowned as she realized the conundrum. She was no longer the woman dependent on the tender impulses of husband. Mark wanted a mistress until the time he married again. The unfamiliar role would require the cleverest of feminine wiles and a stirring of imagination.

  So far she had contributed little—his sexual aggressiveness had provided all of the impetus they needed. She was determined he not know of her inexperience while she explored. She was more than willing to take this journey with him, under his tutelage and generosity.

  She stepped back from the bed, walked around the end, holding the post as she did so. She hid nothing as she slowly strolled toward him, capturing his complete attention with ease.

  Mistresses made men forget about marriages and entanglements, worries and failures. And they helped celebrate victories, fortunes and successes.

  It was time to make Mark forget with a little celebration.

  Mark had a hard time breathing, let alone talking to Katrina. His erection had surged as he walked the stairs. A happy circumstance, one he hadn’t experienced much since his randy youth; once having spent, he was usually done for a few hours. Men might boast of sexual prowess and multiple conquests, but it was a special thing to experience this sort of fierce need burning in his groin and have his body respond quickly.

  As she approached, he swallowed back the rest of his drink, realizing he’d forgotten to offer her one. It was understandable considering the heady release he’d just experienced, pounding into her and discharging the product of his body and the enormous amount of pent up vigor he’d been storing the last two days.

  Her hands caressed his chest before she tugged at his cravat and allowed it to fall to the floor. Each button on his waistcoat and shirt was popped open with a quick flick of her lovely, slender fingers. She pushed his waistcoat down his arms. Before his shirt was off, her hands slid inside, brushing over his chest and soothing along the contours of his muscles. Her thumbs brushed over the sensitive tips that seemed womanishly hard under her soft touch.

  She spread the sides of his shirt and set her mouth and tongue to the dark disk on his left side. He’d always known he was embarrassingly susceptible to sexual stimulation against his nipples.

  A rush of air leapt from his mouth as blood surged in his loins. Years ago with his first woman, he had discharged when she’d pulled his nipple into her mouth. He was better prepared now—but not by much.

  His cock ached with renewed fierceness, demanding relief inside of her body, perhaps her lovely mouth.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, glancing up at him, her gaze somnolent and trusting.

  “What you are doing.” He barely choked out the words. She put her mouth to his chest again, sucking gently. His eyelids eased shut but popped back open when she slid her hand inside his trousers and caressed his aching cock.

  He braced one hand behind him, rattling the tray of flasks and bottles.

  He’d just shagged her roughly, ejaculated thoroughly, and he was in worse condition now. The bed seemed an ocean away. He fumbled at his trousers. Somehow he freed himself from her grip, turned her toward the wall where she braced her hands, then he bent at his knees. His cock came up between the sweet valley of her thighs while he gazed down at her pretty peach of an ass.

  His large hand gripped the back of her neck. He shoved into her, bringing her to her toes. With a few thrusts, his trousers and small clothes fell past his knees, hung up by the tops of his boots.

  He canted and rammed. Over and over she took him. Her feminine mewls only encouraged his brutish behavior, taking her more as if she were a whore than a long-term investment in pleasure. Thinking of her as a lady did not stop him or change the fact he wanted to shag her until neither of them could walk.

  For a second time, he spilled into her—copious amounts of fluid by the feel of each surging release.

  And by the slick feel of her as he surged the last few times. He withdrew from her body, the sound a weirdly disgusting slurp that would have shamed him with his wife. Katrina moaned, then stretched like a street tabby scratching its claws against a post.

  Was he this randy because it had been so long since he’d had an illicit relationship? Or was it because she was the first woman he’d ever had who was openly, assertively interested in pursuing unexplored realms of pleasure?

  He stumbled to a chair, where he shed his boots and the rest of his clothing. She poured herself a drink and ambled slowly toward the bed, ignoring him for the moment. She gulped it down, then licked at her lips—she was Russian, he shouldn’t be surprised at her capacity to drink. His gaze followed her even as his fingers fumbled to do as his mind commanded.

  The graceful lines of her back curved into the lush roundness of the sweetest ass he’d ever seen.

  She did not rush to cover her body. She did not vainly babble.

  Her cool reserve was evident in all she had done thus far, yet he could feel the draw of heat in the way she looked at him, touched him and fucked him.

  “Would you like another drink?” he asked, pushing to his feet and feeling, at last, capable of standing. He turned in time to watch her stretch out on the bed, on her stomach, her feet hanging over and her head resting on her arm.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  She made room from him as he approached the bed. He was certain he had not seen so much naked woman at such length. He couldn’t tear his gaze away no matter how he tried. He sat on the bed, drink in hand. Katrina ran her fingers over his stomach. A sharp contraction rippled through his muscles. Her hand was uncomfortably close to his still raging need.

  “So, my Lord Compton, you have a mistress. What else should I know about you?”

  “If you listen to the ton gossips, you probably know all there is to know.”

  “But how much is true?”

  “Depends on what you’ve heard.”

  “Some drivel. Some curiosities. Some conjecture.”

  “Does any of it really matter?”

  Mark had thought the Baroness was the one who was difficult to know. While he found it easy to share his body with her, divulging his life history to a woman he didn’t know seemed too complex, too demanding. He was not ready to so disarm himself. Or to arm her with those things one shared only with the most trusted confidant. It was easy to boast when one was a complete success.

  However, over the past several months he had discovered something about himself he did not like.

  He had believed honor was inbred into his very being. But when the family faced its worst crisis, he had allowed his sister—his sister—to sacrifice herself for the sake of the family name.

  The circumstances were a damning statement about him. Christina had confided in him and he had done nothing to stop her. It was little consolation that she would have done it with or without his consent.

  And why he should have worried, he didn’t know. Once John died and Mark became the earl, many women would have been happy to be the countess. Susannah and her family had calculated, and schemed, since he was being honest. They’d played their hand perfectly, in wait for the possibility Mark would inherit.

  Maybe he had panicked as he’d seen that his lifestyle and respectability could be diminished. Though it had worked out in the most astonishing manner, he was still troubled by his part in the play and what it revealed about his character.

  Perhaps he was paying for all of his sins now.

  Strangely, since Christina’s marriage, his new brother-in-law Dane had never uttered a word of condemnation. Nor had Christina.

  “Why do we not talk of something more interesting?” He ran a finger along Katrina’s side, tracing one of those lines at her wai
st that marked her as a mother.

  “My children?” She laughed and rolled to her back. “I would have thought child-rearing the most boring of subjects to a man like you.”

  Maybe it was interesting because he was asking the question of an uninhibited naked woman.

  “I have three sons. All fine boys who much resemble my father, or at least my side of the family. There are days when I would sell them to gypsies, though.”

  Sons. Multiple children. A pang of unwanted, regretful longing shot through his chest.

  “But they are my life,” she said.

  “A blessing, to be sure.” He traced the line again, musing about his loss. “A fertile goddess.”

  “Oh. I have taken precautions,” she assured him. “You needn’t worry you will suddenly inherit your own blessing.”

  He gave her a half smile before reaching for the covers and pulling them over her hips and to his waist. A twist of pain tore at his heart. He fought to hold back any of his emotions.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. She buried her face in his chest. “Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking of your circumstances.”

  When he didn’t say anything, she snuggled closer, not helping his composure. Her sympathetic gaze turned soft and wistful. “Someday you will remarry and have other children. Sometimes we think the loss of a child only affects the mother, but you’ve been doubly hurt. A child and an heir. It is unfortunate and very sad. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “It was a tragedy,” he said carefully.

  “I cannot imagine.” She pressed a kiss to his chest. “I don’t know what I would do without my sons.”

  He had closed his eyes and braced one hand behind his head. “Susannah had seemed so healthy. One understands the realities of childbirth, but I never dreamt such a tragedy would befall us. Even with a physician in attendance, she succumbed. My son hadn’t a chance.”

  The Baroness whispered consoling words. “A little boy. Oh, the poor darling.”

  For his part, Mark did not seem to be able to stop the flow of words, as distressing has it had seemed so recently.

  “Even before he was born, I had imagined the life he would have. One that would be the product of all the ingenuity and luck I could cobble together. I wanted to pass on an earldom that held all the promise and purpose a respected title should hold. I wanted it to be…not necessarily easier for him, but better.”

  He had been determined not to reveal his greatest failure. Instead, he revealed his greatest weakness—he had longed for this child and had hoped with ridiculous desire to have a son.

  Behind his eyelids, the sting of tears burned, trying to escape.

  Remembering.

  He had demanded everyone leave the room. The evidence of Susannah’s struggle was strewn about, but she lay peacefully in repose with her eyes closed. Their son lay tucked beneath her arm, cleaned and swaddled, as if he were but sleeping.

  Mark had held him to his chest, weeping uncontrollably into the blankets. Susannah had wanted to name him after her father.

  “You must mourn them properly,” the baroness said.

  He had suffered in silence.

  “Do you wish to be alone?”

  Alone? Hadn’t that driven him to seek a mistress in the first place? Hadn’t John’s death and his sisters’ marriages left a hole that only grew wider at the loss of Susannah and their son?

  “No. I want you to stay.”

  He brushed his hand over her shoulder before he lowered his body to the bed. He reached for the candlewick and snubbed it quickly. Katrina resettled at his side.

  “Someday you will want to talk of them,” she said quietly. “I would be happy to listen when you are ready.”

  * * * * *

  The faraway call of chimes told Katrina it was time to go. She’d lain beside Mark enjoying the companionable comfort and warmth of her lover through the night, while she dozed in fits and starts. He’d slept soundly once he was on his back.

  Pain pierced her heart. As a mother, she could feel the depth of his sorrow, but she could not lead him where he was not ready to go. What he had expressed was heartbreaking enough.

  As a woman and his lover, she basked in the surrounding heat of their bodies. Such comfort could not be purchased, not really.

  A moment later, she heard the rattle of the carriage wheels on cobblestone and the unhappy snorts of the harnessed horses.

  She rubbed her hand over Mark’s chest. “The carriage is here. I must go,” she whispered.

  The dark glint of his eyes told her he was awake. “Not yet,” he said, sleepy huskiness in his voice. He covered her hand that lay on his chest and then guided her downward until her palm warmed to his hardened cock. “I wish to give you a proper farewell.”

  “I will return this evening,” she reminded him.

  “And I will be sure to give you a proper greeting then.”

  His hand glided to her hip and he neatly lifted her over his body. Her legs straddled his hips, wedging his cock firmly between the heated valley of her thighs. Sticky moisture still remained, and she shared it with him with a quick cant of her hips and a gentle rub along the length of his cock.

  He pulled the covers over them, the first hint of modesty the two of them had shared, if one considered the room was very nearly dark and a bit chilly.

  When his hands found her hips again, he eased her on to his cock. She liked the sound of his moaning satisfaction as she took his length deep in her body.

  Perhaps because it was early and they were still sleepy, but their joining was much more subdued and sensual. He canted his hips in an easy rhythm underneath her. She rocked slowly, taking his erection with slow in-and-out movements while she lay over his chest. The heat between them coursed through her, melted her, until her body sheltered his. She lazily toyed with his hardened nipples.

  Her arousal was gentle and steady. As she soared toward the peak, she pushed up from his chest and took him deep, squeezing her inner muscles, fighting to keep her place amongst the blissful clouds of release.

  Suddenly, she was under Mark as he finished with several fast, deep thrusts that woke her completely. He jerked, each eliciting a satisfying groan.

  She ran her hands over his back. Warm. Solid. All man. She missed this connection and would miss it terribly once they went their separate ways, which she could not think of now. Not now, when it was all so new and exciting.

  He held himself over her for a moment before rolling to his side and bracing his head with his hand. “Good morning, Baroness,” he said.

  “Good morn to you.” She pressed a kiss to his chest. He moved on his side of the bed. “No, don’t get up. I will see myself out,” she said.

  “Let me help you.”

  She had already grabbed her chemise, letting it slide over her head and down her body. “There’s no need for both of us to be inconvenienced.”

  “You could stay.”

  “I could, but I won’t,” she said. She dressed quickly, leaving a few of the buttons at the back of her dress undone, knowing her cape would cover it until she reached the privacy of her home and boudoir.

  Mark didn’t listen. She saw a flash of skin, dark in the pre-dawn hours but still distinctly man. He pushed his arms into a robe and proceeded to light a candle.

  Her decision to become Mark’s mistress was a private one. A sick feeling welled in her stomach at the thought of her sons knowing their mother had a lover. Ivan was a young man—he might understand the need, but she didn’t think forgiveness would be an easy thing. He would see it as a betrayal of his father. She didn’t think the younger two would grasp the concept of a lover, not yet anyway. If she phrased it correctly? Her particular friend? A friend like Geral had been? They might be more accepting of such a notion, but could she take the chance? And could she trust Peter?

  Peter would see it as a confirmation she was unworthy of the Klee name, if he found out. She believed she could keep the affair secret; they weren’t meeting so often
that it would be obvious to ton gossips. And she only had to be circumspect until Mark married. Having experienced the Earl of Compton firsthand, sadly, she thought that event might happen before she was ready to let him go.

  Still, she doubted he would marry before his mourning was complete, and the prospect of the many months with him made her delirious with joy. This was for her, all for her.

  * * * * *

  Katrina settled into the role of lover with an ease that astonished her. Their secret rendezvous had been working like a charm. Just when she missed him desperately, it was time to go back. The past few weeks passed like a dream, with no one the wiser.

  Happiness was nearly as obvious as the newest fashion—she wore it openly for all the world to see. Perhaps it was a little dangerous. At balls, she played the coquette, feeling a confidence with men she had never experienced. Maybe it was the assurance she was desired. Maybe it was that she never had to wait more than two days to see Mark, knowing he was just as anxious to see her.

  So, it was with great disappointment she penned him a note on the following Thursday to say she would be unavailable for the next day. She would still try to meet him Saturday.

  Peter Klee popped in and out of her life with an irregularity that seemed to imply he did it to inconvenience her rather than for any specific regard he had for those to whom he was guardian.

  If he was in London, she had to be the perfect widow and mother.

  He leaned against the mantle in her living room. She supposed he was handsome, but he had no title and he only owned a modest home and mill in Surrey—far enough that she did not have to see him each week, but not so far that he stayed away.

  “We will leave the first week in September. I know the boys are most anxious for the trip to begin.”

  “I haven’t agreed yet, Peter. The boys might be enthusiastic, but there is much to consider before such a decision is made.”